


Unthinkable

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [12]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Autobots' secret base exposed! Twin demons from the dawn of time unleashed! Ultra Magnus and Downshift in final battle with their living nightmares! The RID and SWAT teams reunited! Autobots and Terrorcons side-by-side against the ultimate evil! All of that... and it's only the beginning. <i>Transformers: RID</i> kicks into high gear as <i>The Primus Trilogy</i> races toward its senses-shattering conclusion. Everything changes here - <i>everything</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The alarms should have registered when the rear wall began to superheat. Claxons should have sounded when the thick barriers of Fortress Maximus melted. Red warning lights should have filled the hallways as molten slag flowed down them.

None of that happened.

As a result, Flame Convoy was inside the hidden Autobot city before any of its occupants could react.

Downshift, suddenly face-to-face with the nightmarish fallen god of Animatros, had little to say. His processor reeled, unglued by the impossibility of what he’d witnessed. Somehow, the ferocious three-headed dragon – the inspiration for the zealots of the True Path – had made it not only past their outer defences, but into their chronally-displaced refuge from the world… without tripping a single sensor relay. Then he had _melted_ his way through the Gigalonian-constructed walls, right in front of the engineer’s disbelieving optics.

“You can’t,” he muttered, looking into the blazing eyes of the dragon. “You just can’t… I mean… impossible, not improbable, but totally impossible… I…”

He yelped as he was pulled to one side; a hail of icy daggers perforated the floor upon which he had been standing. Downshift did not have time to regain his balance before he was unceremoniously dragged again, this time from out the range of a hellish fireball.

“Wake up, you dumb frack,” Armourhide barked into his face plate. “We gotta move!”

The commando transformed into a blue-and-white mini-truck and tore off down the hallway. Downshift, still numb, folded up into an emerald-and-black muscle car and followed, easily catching his friend thanks to his superior speed. It scarcely mattered – Flame Convoy gave chase, his four clawed feat drumming a death march.

“Dis is da part,” Armourhide yelled, “where you activate all of dem counter-measures you’ve spent vorns building inta dis place, and save our skid plates!”

“There are none,” Downshift muttered self-consciously.

“What did you say?”

“There _are no counter-measures_ ,” Downshift bellowed, his volume fuelled by panic. “I didn’t install any! What would be the point? The fortress was impregnable!”

“Yeah, it looks really slagging impregnable to me right now,” Armourhide sneered. “You tellin’ me you got more locks on yer lab door than Checkpoint has in his entire stinking prison, but you neglected to fill da walls with acid bats, electrified tentacles or even a single _blast door_?”

“The locks are to protect mechs from my lab,” Downshift sighed miserably. “Not to protect my lab from mechs.”

“ _Terr_ ific,” Armourhide moaned. “We’re all gonna die.”

The commando fired a salvo from his rear-facing laser rifle, but the crimson bolts ricocheted harmlessly off Flame Convoy’s super-charged chassis. Orange, serpentine heads on either side of his thick neck writhed and snapped, as if desperate to chow down on the fleeing Autobots. The former deity’s central face was a portrait of stony concentration; the barest of rumblings issued from his conflagrating throat.

Watching, horrified, through his rear scanners, Downshift saw that spiny head rear back. A geyser of sulphur and ash billowed out, rocketing down the corridor like a plume of death incarnate. The engineer braced himself for the pain but could not swallow his cry of agony when the eldritch fire made contact. He could almost feel the paint stripping from his reinforced frame – had he been any less armoured, he’d have been slagged.

Armourhide, he could see, was similarly tarnished but uninjured – armoured by both name and nature. Still, he looked rattled. Both of them knew, only too well, what Flame Convoy had done to an entire section of the nearby human city. Worse, they knew he’d managed to kill Ultra Magnus… if not for some unexpected help, their commander would be one with the Matrix now. If that mighty a ‘bot could fall before Flame Convoy’s talons, what chance did they have? Especially in close quarters?

“Undastood,” Armourhide was saying – Downshift didn’t know why. “Lissen up, greenie, you gotta make a hard left turn at the next big intersection. You got dat?”

Downshift stammered an affirmative. The next intersection was a four-way crossing, linking the central corridor with both the medical and barracks wings. Turning would take him toward the medbay… but why?

Behind them, Flame Convoy roared with all three of his synthesisers. Downshift’s back window shattered; Armourhide skidded off course and had to right himself.

“In three,” Armourhide ordered. “Two… one… _turn_ , for da love of Primus!”

Downshift locked his steering wheel and pulled up his handbrake. His tyres squealed in protest but he made it around the sharp corner… all too well. The engineer kept spinning and ended up pointing back the way he’d come. He watched, frozen with terror, as Flame Convoy halted, in the middle of the central corridor, and turned to look at him.

For a moment, their optics locked. Flame Convoy snorted.

Then, an enormous blue-and-white juggernaut slammed into the unsuspecting dragon at unimaginable speed, pushing it down the central hallway in a shower of sparks and a clamour of bending steel and tearing flesh.

“Whoa!” Armourhide whooped from the other passage. “Big Bot is on da scene!”

\-----

Fear caught in his Spark like the most jagged of knives. He ignored it, accelerated, and stared deep into the eyes of his nemesis.

It had arrived – the confrontation Ultra Magnus had longed to avoid, all the while knowing it was inevitable. From the very moment Flame Convoy had slunk away, submerging his ruined frame in the waters at the edge of the city, a second and final battle between them was on foot. The days between had not been peace, had not been a cease-fire… they’d been nothing but a delay.

The dragon bellowed, having recognised its most hated foe. Magnus had no clue how Flame Convoy had found them, and even less idea how he’d managed to counteract the temporal distortions that hid the base from the rest of the world. Nor, at this very moment, did he care. Questions – about both the situation and his personal readiness to face it – could wait.

With a feral snarl, Flame Convoy transformed. His forelimbs became arms that gripped and gouged the sides of Magnus’ cab section; his bird-like rear legs skidded across the steel floor before finding purchase on his front bumper and grille. Unlike the last time they’d fought, Magnus did not struggle. He made no move to juke or try to shake his devilish foe off. The dragon of nightmares was right where he was supposed to be.

As Magnus expected, Flame Convoy began to climb, seeking refuge on the Autobot’s broad, flat car-carrying trailer section. But he had reckoned without two barriers in his way: an unforgiving weapons system known as Blue Bolts, and Scattorshot – the mech manning its turret controls.

“Hiya,” the blue half-tank drawled. “Buh-bye now.”

Scattorshot touched the controls and “Blue Bolts” roared to life, pummelling Flame Convoy with its full compliment of ammunition at closer than point-blank range. The dragon howled, spitting fire and fury, as his three heads were nearly taken off by electrical discharge, Teflon-coated machine gun bullets and rocket-propelled warheads. Magnus’ 2IC fired with greater accuracy than he himself could have managed, while in vehicle mode… precisely his aim upon realising the stronghold had been breached.

“Bail out,” Magnus yelled.

Scattorshot, who had been lying along the top of Magnus’ trailer, didn’t argue. He released the weapon’s hand grips and rolled to the right, tumbling off his commander and bouncing into the wall and floor. Unburdened, Magnus accelerated to his top speed and drove both himself and Flame Convoy into the rear wall, just metres from the spot at which the dragon had entered.

The staggering impact tore Flame Convoy loose; Magnus reversed and slammed into his nemesis again, burying him in the tortured, twisted steel. He reversed again, using his momentum and transformation to get a little breathing distance, then dropped to one knee and swung his rifle up into position. Scattorshot was almost instantly by his side; together, the duo activated their Force Chips.

Blue light flashed down the steely corridor as the near-mythical devices materialised and slotted into place. Magnus’ rifle split and swung into its deadliest configuration, Powerlinking with his shoulders for added potency and strength. The missile racks on Scattorshot’s back lifted and locked into place on either side of his head; a second battery of smaller but no less deadly munitions flipped out and took aim.

Without a word, the self-dubbed “rolling arsenals” loosed their most devastating attacks at their pinned opponent. Flame Convoy had but a moment to scream in indignation before the wave of munitions washed over him. Organic components exploded messily; iron and steel bodywork ruptured and fragmented. Taken well beyond the limits of its endurance, the already-weakened wall collapsed, pitching the agonised dragon out of Fortress Maximus and into the cool night-time air outside.

Magnus deactivated his weapon, willed away his Force Chip and nodded quickly to Scattorshot. Less than a second passed before Downshift and Armourhide pulled up alongside them and transformed.

“We’ve got maybe 10 seconds,” Magnus growled.

\-----

Deliverance came in many and varied forms, but none stranger than that of a burning deity who sailed through the darkened skies before crashing into lush grassland. But Snarl had never been one to pick on the odd nature of omens. He simply acted upon them as savagely as he was able.

“Flame Convoy,” he roared, transforming to beast mode and pouncing with all the strength in his hind legs. _Huntnomore_ is upon you, and it shall come at the tips of my claws!”

He slammed into his former leader with concussive force, causing them both to roll and tumble away from the edge of Fortress Maximus. Their path cut a fiery swathe through the foliage, lighting the night with eerie ambiance. For a moment, Snarl felt like he was back on Animatros; both his hackles and his blood lust rose feverishly at the thought.

Summoning his green Force Chip, the wolf bared ever-extending golden fangs. Once, he would have foolishly paused to savour the moment; made some kind of final, scathing quip or proud announcement of his kill. Time had smoothed his rough edges, honed his abilities as both hunter and killer. Never mind his vow to safeguard the freedom of others, at this moment – he was about to emancipate himself once and for all!

“Ah,” Flame Convoy said, looking up at Snarl. “ _There_ you are.”

Snarl gagged as a powerful hand snatched him around the neck and wrenched his head back, further and further, toward his spine. The dragon’s grip was inexorable – worse, his damaged sections of muscle and armour were _healing_ before the wolf’s very eyes. As his lupine throat was fully bared, so too was Flame Convoy fully healed.

“Your fatal mistakes,” the dragon said, clearly relishing each word, “was allowing me to catch your scent, back in the place of small dwellings, and not following me into the waters of this world. Ample flesh there was, beneath the waves, to replenish myself – and ample time did you fools give me to eat my fill.”

Snarl noticed pieces of Flame Convoy’s armour bore the faded insignias of this planet’s various governments – the erstwhile god had consumed not only fish and sea life, but submarines and the humans within them.

“Whole once more, but still hungry, I followed your pungent aroma from the sea bed until I was certain of your location. I walked through mountains to find you, Fang Wolf – passed like a ghost through the unsuspecting natives of this feeble world, all to avenge an age-old wrong. A slight perpetrated by _you_.”

The pressure against his neck increased exponentially; his back was about to break. Snarl, however, pushed past the pain and, as he’d learned to do on this world, improvised. He transformed, the twisted neck becoming no more vital than a forearm, and took up his tail sword. The blade slashed vengefully into Flame Convoy’s exposed face and the giant, surprised by the attack, relinquished his vice-like hold.

“Fire in the hole,” called a familiar voice.

The wolf returned to beast mode and darted out of the way – two sets of missiles streaked in behind him and thundered against Flame Convoy’s resilient form. Jazz and Smokescreen, the accidental twins, followed their munitions at high speed. They changed from vehicle to robot mode in the blink of an eye, leading with their shield-bearing left arms. A moment before collision, they increased the radius of their force fields, trapping Flame Convoy behind a pulsing wall of green energy. The barrier pushed the dragon back to the edge of the clearing where he slammed noisily into the base of a mountain. Such was the force of his landing that a snow drift came loose and blanketed him.

Snarl moved to renew his assault; Jazz grabbed him by the arm. “Calm down, hot dog,” he ordered. “It ain’t gonna play out that way, this time. Magnus wants eve’body inside, like yesterday, and we gonna do this as a team. You dig?”

Growling his disapproval, Snarl nevertheless nodded. “Being that he is the only one among you I would not consider a fool,” he said dangerously, “I will pay heed to his words.” He shook Jazz’s hand free. “Be not overly familiar with me, Autobot.”

Jazz’s grin was feral. “One day, you an’ me gonna have some free time, an’ we’ll see who’s the real bad ass,” he sneered. “Now get yo’ furry skid plate inside, dawg!”

Smokescreen stepped in front of them and blanketed the area with the thick, oily smog for which he’d been named. A grey wall rose between the combatants; its scent was exceedingly unpleasant to Snarl. Eager to be away from the airborne muck, he led the way back into the antiseptic interior of the Autobot base.

\-----

“I never figured I’d be sayin’ dis,” Armourhide muttered, peering out through the broken wall, “but thank Primus fer ol’ Chopperface.”

“Hit and run only works for so long,” Magnus said darkly. “Snarl knows that as well as I do. Twice, I’ve pummelled Flame Convoy with every onboard weapon I have and he’s stood back up, begging for more. Our last fight didn’t have an ending… more like a time-out between rounds.” He sighed. “I don’t know how to stop him.”

Downshift was only half-listening to their blather. He shook his head in frustration. “How did he get in, anyway?” he muttered.

“Would you fuggedabowt that already?” Armourhide snapped. “Talk about yer ancient history, Mr Genius Science Mech! Sheesh! Can you at least _try_ to concentrate on finding ways to keep us all alive?”

The engineer bristled, and reacted again when Magnus pushed past him. The towering commander strode across to an interlink panel, mounted in the corridor. “TAI,” he said, pressing an activation button. “Sit-rep.”

A human female’s ebullient face – Kicker’s idea of a programming joke – filled the screen as the Tactical Artificial Intelligence program activated. “All RID Units, save Unit Three, present on site,” it said, sounding like a teenager and looking like a red-clad crossing guard. “Base compromised; weapons systems operational.”

“Now _dere’s_ a good idea,” Armourhide said. “Nuke the big ugly bastich with some of da crap Fort Max has got built inta his hide!”

“Estimated time to weapon readiness: 15 minutes,” TAI said flatly.

“Crap.”

“External cameras and sensor arrays show no sign of invader’s arrival, nor of his breaching of scanned sectors. Analysis: inconclusive.” It smiled. “Sorry, guys.”

Armourhide shook his head. “Kicker just ain’t funny,” he huffed.

“I _still_ want to know how he got inside the clearing,” Downshift repeated. He would not be swayed from this pursuit – he was certain it held an important clue.

“I may know the answer to that,” Snarl called. The wolf climbed through the gaping hole left by Flame Convoy’s exit. Jazz and Smokescreen followed, through the breach made during the dragon’s entrance.

“He told me he was a vengeful wraith, moving through the humans without notice while he tracked me.” He growled. “It is my distinct displeasure to announce my culpability… I brought this plague upon our den, through my scent.”

Downshift and the others murmured discontent and disquiet – but were silenced by a glare from Magnus. “It doesn’t matter,” he said harshly. “We’ve spent a decade in secret; realistically, we knew it wouldn’t last forever. What’s important is whatever Flame Convoy meant by that.”

_Wraiths… unseen… moving through…_ The words tumbled through Downshift’s processor. He’d felt oddly sluggish, lately, as if he were constantly multi-tasking. Even when he turned his mind to one job, a single problem, it was like other sectors of his brain were madly accessing and downloading data. Perhaps he should have seen someone about it but, as the base medic, to who else could he go?

Inspiration struck. “Displacement,” he cried.

The others turned to look. Outside, wisps of smoke drifted lazily up from the deep pile of snow. Downshift realised he had _very_ little time to explain.

“Flame Convoy came from the future,” he began breathlessly, “through a wormhole. He’s chronally displaced – and so are we. Maybe, unconsciously, he’s synching in with our time stream… using it like a hunter would long grass, in order to avoid detection! He went ‘ghost’ through the humans, then popped back into real time as he neared the clearing. All on instinct! So we didn’t pick him up until he phased back into our frame of reference, melted down the wall and started chasing us everywhere!”

He looked around. Most faces were blank. Armourhide’s optic ridges were cocked oddly. Magnus and Snarl, meanwhile, were nodding.

“It makes sense,” Magnus said.

“Terrifyingly so,” Snarl added. “Already powerful beyond measure, the ‘Great One’ has added the very passage of seconds to factors he can manipulate in his favour.”

“Awright, I get it now,” Armourhide screeched, raising his hands angrily. “An’ I don’t like it one bit! How da heck are we supposed to fight an all-powerful deity, in an enclosed space, while he’s flippin’ in an’ out of da real world whenever he feels like it?”

A geyser of flame roared over their heads.

“Think about it later,” Smokescreen yelled. “Peel out!”

The group transformed; Snarl leaped atop Downshift’s roof and clung tightly to his soft top. Magnus and Jazz led the evacuation while Smokescreen brought up the rear, trailing fog. Armourhide slotted in next to the diversionary tactician, pouring round after round of laser fire into the muck in the vain hope of hitting something vital.

“As long as we stay together, I endanger you all,” he heard Snarl yell over the noise of multiple engines. “I should break away, lead Flame Convoy from your scents.”

“Dat’s uncharacteristically noble of ya,” Armourhide cat-called. “Whassup, you turn around and grow a conscience while I wasn’t lookin’ or something?”

“Indeed I did, vermin – it is large, ungainly and uncommonly itchy. Come closer, so I can scratch it with your _spinal strut_!”

“Knock it off,” Magnus boomed, “and split up. Make for different areas of the base. I’ve told TAI to fire up the exterior canons – we need to keep Flame Convoy off our tails, and each one of us alive – for 13 more minutes.”

Ice knives crashed into them from behind. Armourhide wailed; Smokescreen slowed momentarily but increased his pace when a fireball clipped his rear axle. The heat washed over Downshift; he sped up in response.

“Teams of two, Snarl with me,” Magnus ordered. The wolf bounded across the Autobots’ bonnets until he reached the car carrier. “Downshift, you’re on your own,” the commander continued. “Make for the lab, cook something up. Move!”

_Cook something up?_ he wailed silently. _Sweet Primus!_

They reached the four-way intersection once more and separated, quickly zooming down side corridors and access hatchways to further disguise their paths. Downshift raced to a manhole – linking this level with the two below it – and transformed, ducking under its protective cover. The last thing he heard, as it closed, was a roar of lethal rage.

\-----

Rodimus powered up the entrance ramp, his velocity matched only by his disappointment. _Predacon, you fool,_ he raged silently. _How can anyone be so blind… so blasted self-deluded?_

He’d tried… he’d really, really tried. It was a big thing, knowing you’d one day have to shoulder the burden of leadership for the entire Autobot army. Rodimus felt he had a good handle on being the chosen one: plenty of lead time, good advice from Optimus, Magnus and others, even a few ideas of his own.

It was when enacting those ideas he occasionally fell. Rodimus had wanted to _reach_ Predacon, make him see that peace was a much better option than continued conflict. Sure, it’s not the sort of thing Optimus would ever have done – but Optimus had Megatron to contend with. Megs was the last mech on Cybertron to agree to even a temporary alliance, and the first to sacrifice his men for the sake of his goals.

Predacon was just the opposite. Charismatic and charming, but also highly concerned about the welfare of his “congregation”. His research had taught him that – one master plan scrubbed to save Cruel Lock, large expenditure to an unknown black-market dealer to secure not only weaponry but supplies, leisure items and comfortable furnishings. The Transmetal zealot was like no Decepticon leader before him.

Rodimus had been convinced he could reach Predacon through reason, talking, accord. No such luck. Whatever redeeming qualities he had were blanketed by his smothering devotion to a belief system based in the torturing and suffering of others. Not just blanketed… _cancelled out._

The warning he’d issued, about Flame Convoy, had been a last-ditch attempt to break through. It was a very un-Autobot thing to do; if Grimlock found out about it he’d be court-martialled – destiny be damned. Such a big risk, a breach of military protocol and the way he’d always lived his life, for naught. Predacon hadn’t taken it as a symbol of the need to unite… he’s just turned very, _very_ pale and stood, rock-solid still, for quite a long time. He’d shuffled away slowly, without another word, tail drooping.

None of which made much sense to Rodimus. The cavalier knew Flame Convoy was bad news; he’d played a role in Ultra Magnus’ resurrection, after all. Still, the dragon of Animatros was _just one mech_ – how much of a bogeyman could he be? Magnus had been nearly killed in single combat, and Predacon had an entire army surrounding him in a hidden base. There was no reason for the zealot to be so… well, terrified.

A dark shape flashed across his forward scanners. Rodimus braked, but was too late. He cried out in pain as his front end collapsed, crushed by a massive weight from above. It was a huge orange hammer; the business end of an impossibly long flail. The weapon’s ebony handle was gripped in fiery, taloned hands belonging to a Transformer every bit as tall and broad as Magnus, and a thousand times more ferocious than any mech Rodimus had seen in his young life. Unicron included.

He was pinned under the flail. He was too badly damaged to Transform. His weapons were useless in vehicle mode. And Flame Convoy was _leering._

“You’ll be the first,” he rumbled.


	2. Chapter 2

The higher Flame Convoy’s flail rose, the wider a sick, malicious grin spread across his face plate. Deity or not, the dragon of Animatros was about to impart divine retribution upon Rodimus… with _relish._

“The first,” he hissed again. “A corpse ripe to toss into the depths of the burrow, signalling _huntnomore_ for all within!”

Trapped in vehicle mode, Rodimus braced for impact. If he managed to survive the first strike, perhaps he could to re-start his damaged engine and get rolling, at the very least. Anything to buy some time, to figure out how Flame Convoy got inside the hidden Autobot city and got the drop on him.

As the flail began to fall, he winced… but no blow was delivered.

He risked a glance through his forward scanners. Flame Convoy’s entire body was tense, his head upright. His purple nose was twitching, nostrils flared. He was… sniffing the air? Yes, that was it – he was searching, like an animal, for a scent.

“Predacon,” he rumbled, biting the word off like a piece of desiccated flesh. “How weak you are. Seeking refuge, amnesty, with these foolish Red Masks out of fear for your own hide. There is nowhere you are safe, you unclean traitor! Nowhere!”

The towering behemoth transformed; skin and armour twisting sickeningly until it became the hide of a fire-breathing dragon. Reformed, the beast loped off to the left, following the corridor that marked the perimeter of Fortress Maximus’ interior. Rodimus, thankfully, had been forgotten in his lust to find… and devour… the scent’s owner.

“He may have bad taste in body forms,” chuckled a familiar voice, “but dere’s one thing I will say for Smokescreen: dere ain’t nobody better at da job than him.”

“Armourhide?” Rodimus asked. The sound of his own voice shocked him – it was patchy, corrupted with static and squealing into the high frequencies. He realised he would not have survived even _one_ flail strike.

“Who else, kid? Yer proto-hatcher?” The blue-and-white mini-truck rolled in front of him, its rear tow-crane already extended. The thin device dropped a magnetic hook that lifted Rodimus off his front wheels. “We gotta get’cha outta here and unda some cover. Fire-butt back there’s takin’ _no_ prisoners, an’ hit-n-run’s about as successful as Buzzsaw’s last IQ test.”

“What did Smokescreen do?”

“A lot more than blow smoke,” the truck snickered. “Seems he’s taken dis fightin’ animals bit ta heart an’ adapted his tactics. Get dis – he went through da trash and found bits ‘o Terrorcon we scraped offa our armour, after dat mess in the GSB, an’ created _lures_ outta ‘em! Sheesh… got brains, has dat one.”

Rodimus understood. Smokescreen could, with a twist of chemistry, make himself _smell_ like a Terrorcon. That would allow him to sneak up on unsuspecting beastformers or, as in this case, impersonate them.

“He’s leadin’ Ice-brain to a reception he won’t soon forget,” Armourhide continued, “which gives me time to haul yer sorry chassis outta here and into a CR chamber. Phew, kid… yer a wreck, ya know dat?”

Grimly, the cavalier allowed himself to be towed – he had no independent mobility and, therefore, no choice. Whatever happened next would happen _without_ him… all because of his hot-headed decision to play peacemaker.

\-----

_“Downshift, you’re on your own. Make for the lab, cook something up. Move!”_

Not the simplest of orders, was it? Downshift alternated between rifling through his lab and raging, silently, at the absent Ultra Magnus. It was fine and dandy for the Earthforce commander to stand tall in the face of Flame Convoy – he’d already died at the hands of the beast and been resurrected to fight another day! Downshift had but one life to live and 10 years of rust on their battle prowess… taking down a base-breaching deity with a flesh fetish wasn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill task!

Options, options… he needed options. Once upon a time, he reflected ruefully, there’d have been tonnes of different projects cluttering up the lab, waiting for a chance to explode messily. Guns, bombs, missiles, anti-personnel ordnance – a million different ways to slag a grumpy dragon. His change of heart, following Tow-Line’s death, had caused him to put aside such pursuits and focus on defence. That hadn’t helped – Flame Convoy, operating on pure instinct, had _adapted_ to all of Downshift’s fancy initiatives and come barging through the wall, nostrils smoking.

He double-checked what he knew about Flame Convoy. The beast was one of the original 13 Transformers, created by Primus to operate the Plasma Energy Chamber. He’d been exiled, along with Cybertron’s original inhabitants. On the Energon-plagued world of Animatros, he’d developed a beast mode to survive and, later, undergone the Transmetal process to become technorganic. Defeated by Grimlock and Swerve, he’d been entombed in lava for hundreds of thousands of years then travelled back, in time, to kick the skid plates of everyone who’d crossed him.

Meaning: Flame Convoy was old, tough, resistant to energy, resistant to extremes of heat and cold, able to manipulate space/time to some degree, able to self-heal and far stronger, more durable and resilient than a modern-day Transformer. _Wonderful!_

Head displays flashing with a thousand muttered curses, Downshift poked through drawers and emptied storage lockers. He considered and discarded the contents of safes; pondered and ultimately ignored the goodies on row upon row of shelves. Nothing he had fit the bill – if it compensated for one of Flame Convoy’s strengths, it was vulnerable to three of the others. The dragon was such a contradiction, a combination of technologies both ancient and modern – but all poorly understood by Autobot science – he was impossible to counter.

Even with days up his sleeve, Downshift doubted he could cobble together a foolproof anti-Flame Convoy device to which he’d entrust all their lives. _The technology of four worlds at my fingertips,_ he thought bitterly, _and none of it suitable for the task at hand._ He paused. _Four worlds…_

The quest for the Planet Keys had done more than re-unite the scattered peoples of Cybertron. It had also revealed hitherto unknown scientific advancements – the products of accidents both happy and unfortunate. Downshift had access the doughty minerals of Gigalonia, the electronics of Earth and the inventions of his home world. He could also tap forces… _cosmic_ forces… first unleashed on the unique world of Speedia.

His processor pulsed. The entire base was kept out-of-phase by the time-displacement device. That, in turn, was powered by shards of a corrupted Force Chip… the one that had warped calendars on Speedia. Rodimus and the others had saved the racing world from destruction; Downshift had turned the dangerous faux-gems into a boon for the Autobots who were playing “hidden Samaritan” on Earth.

What if he could use them, again, against Flame Convoy?

It was the oddest of things. His mind turned toward the time-shift tech with such passion and dedication! The pervading brain fuzz seemed to evaporate – every sector of his processor, every byte of comprehension, was focused for once. He felt as if an inner force were driving him toward his data pads, moving fingers _for_ him, accessing schematics and blueprints he’d not studied for years. Downshift didn’t fight the sensation, relieved by its return and choosing, instead, to trust in what was surely instinct.

For minutes, he calibrated and calculated. The devices gave off a localised field effect because the “gems” leaked ambient radiation. Directing them at a specific target would be immensely difficult – he’d have to quantify the form of radiation and shield specifically against it. He spent precious time trying to isolate the radiation type… instinct, once again. Discouraged, he finally abandoned it all as too hard. The device couldn’t be converted into a weapon.

He cursed himself for a fool. What a waste of time!

\-----

“This is a most foolish decision.”

“Says you. I think it’s a _brilliant_ decision – the best one he’s made!”

“Your opinion was not sought, as I recall.”

“Geez. Tetchy much?”

“Shut up – both of you,” Magnus whispered fiercely. His not-inconsiderable bulk had been squashed into one of the tighter niches within Fortress Maximus. It was not comfortable, but it didn’t need to be. All it had to be was a beach head, a spot from which Ultra Magnus could command the counter-attack.

They were in the hidden city’s left-hand tower, many stories above its twin crimson anti-aircraft guns. Through a slatted amber window, Magnus could see the massive tubes humming with mechanical life. Power was flowing slowly – _achingly_ slowly – into the weapons, each of which was large enough to fit a Transformer inside. Hopefully, one blast from them would be enough to at least disable Flame Convoy so the Autobots could figure out a way to incarcerate him permanently. Failing that, they would have to take him off-line once and for all… an unpleasant choice, but maybe a necessary one.

Up ahead, Smokescreen barrelled around a corner. The red-and-blue Bugatti squealed to a halt, transformed and nimbly leaped over _it._ Magnus breathed a short sigh of relief – he’d doubted the diversionary tactician would make so basic a mistake but, if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that even the best of plans could be ruined by a careless moment. They could ill afford a slip-up now, because this was _far_ from the best of his plans.

Lured by Predacon’s scent, Flame Convoy lumbered into view. His central head looked down the hallway; the serpents on his shoulders checked left and right for any sign of ambush. All three froze, horrified, at the sight directly in front of them.

There, set into the very steel floor of the city, was a bubbling pool of red-hot magma. The liquid rock, burning furiously, churned and roiled over itself, throwing jets of ash and geysers of steam into the air. Magnus watched Flame Convoy paw the ground, like the beast he was, as he fought off an attack of the nerves. Though it would not be enough to stop the beast, memories of its time entombed within lava gave it pause.

Which was all his mechs needed.

A screech split the air. Divebomb fell from the ceiling, talons extended and Energon scythes flashing. The emerald blades sliced Flame Convoy’s extra heads; avian claws raked his eyes and face as the avian Terrorcon swept over his befuddled form. Divebomb climbed, banked and swooped a second time, using his razor-sharp beak to gouge a fist-sized hole in the monster’s thick, fleshy neck.

Magnus and Snarl had argued over Divebomb’s release. Magnus knew the condor had fought Flame Convoy before, back on Animatros, with some modicum of success. He felt the Terrorcon could be a useful ally – especially because, as a servant of Predacon, he was as much a target for the dragon as any of the Autobots. Snarl, as was typical, wanted to use the Divebomb as bait and nothing else, and had particularly decried Magnus’ desire to hand back his lethal Energon weaponry.

As commander, though, the final decision fell to Magnus and so he had followed his instincts. A holographic projection of lava and some sulphur from one of the supply closets had done the rest.

“So far, things proceed smoothly,” the wolf sniffed, dashing from his hiding place and into battle. “But I shall continue to watch Divebomb as closely as I do Flame Convoy.”

“You do that,” Magnus retorted, bringing his rifle around to bear. “The rest of us will take the small win and try to turn it into a big one, if it’s all the same to you.”

Flame Convoy howled as their weapons perforated his chassis. Divebomb continued the aerial assault; Smokescreen doubled back and added his firepower to the mix. Though they’d all separated, such as Fortress Maximus’ design that the Autobots could loop around and regroup quickly. Jazz and Scattorshot proved that with their arrival; Armourhide drove the point home with a barrage from his chest arsenal.

“Do as much damage as ya can,” Scattorshot called over the thunder of munitions. “Light him up in all sorts ‘o places – mess him up good. It’s all ‘bout gaining time now, mechs.”

“And vengeance,” Divebomb rasped, transforming to robot mode and hefting a scythe in each hand. “For betraying the Path, this false god must _fall._ ”

“Whatever works for ya, bird brain,” Scattorshot drawled, loosing another salvo.

Magnus flipped up his target sight. No one would question his accuracy; still they had no wiggle room this time. Taking precise aim, the Earthforce commander squeezed the trigger and fired two short bursts directly into Flame Convoy’s eyes. The orbs exploded with a gush of fluid; the beast dropped to all four of its knees and roared indignantly.

“Break,” Magnus boomed, transforming and accelerating away. “Eight minutes to go.”

The Autobots split back into two-man teams, Magnus and Snarl dragging a recalcitrant Divebomb along for the ride. They’d communicate through the internal systems and set up another ambush point in a minute or so… anything to eat up the time until the base’s weapons were online. Downshift wasn’t beating his door down with a solution, so Magnus had to assume blunt trauma was their only option.

Even though he was 100 per cent convinced it wouldn’t work.

\-----

Stepping over – and in some cases, on to – months of pain-staking work, Downshift came to the rear wall of his lab… and paused. His optics swept over one particular plasteel and Perspex container, wired to a mass of machinery. A question formed in his mind.

_Dare I?_

The long, thin container housed the most destructive weapon known to the Cybertronian race. Long thought to be a product of the planet, time had revealed its alien – but related – origins. It was like two other weapons in the sense that it brought with it both terrible power and Spark-wrenching ethical conundrums. It differed from those similar weapons by virtue of its ongoing existence.

Downshift placed his hands atop the container and looked at the Star Sabre – a blade forged from the bodies of three Mini-cons. Runway, Sonar and Jet Storm had spent vorns locked in their combined form; scholars now doubted their individual personalities continued to exist, leaving behind only unchecked power.

Possessed, for most of its existence, by Megatron, the sabre – created by the Chaos Bringer, Unicron – had been re-taken by the trio’s fellow Mini-cons and handed over to the Autobots. Having reached internal consensus, the Mini-cons had requested their friends be separated and allowed to return to their lives. Downshift had said he would try to fulfil their request, but warned such an operation would be tediously time-consuming.

So far, the near-microscopic laser scalpels and specially-designed “solvent nanites” had worked on breaking down the sabre for more than a decade. They were yet to meet with even the vaguest hint of success. In that time, the blade has lost the purple hues of its “Dark Sabre” colouration. Like its creator, the weapon fed off emotion – negative thoughts darkened its armour, while a noble wielder allowed it to maintain its standard cobalt-and-silver scheme.

Now, ten years after it had last been touched, the sabre was… mottled. Sonar, who transformed into the weapon’s handle and pommel, was white and black with some maroon highlights. Maroon was also the predominant colour on Jetstorm, the lower half of the sword proper, who had inexplicably “sprouted” two new, jagged blades.

Oddly, Runway – the trio’s once-loquacious leader – glowed with all the power of Energon; his golden appearance tickling Downshift’s memory banks. Just once before, the engineer had seen the Star Sabre flare with the gold and obsidian of pure Energon… while in the hands of Optimus Prime. Megatron, of course, had witnessed that moment as well – it had created the hunger, within him, to possess the blade.

Though the personalities within the blade may be lost forever, the weapon itself seemed… in flux. Unsure of its identity – and its allegiance. _A chaos bringer,_ he thought darkly.

It made a sick sort of sense, didn’t it? The Star Sabre represented forces equal and opposite to those that created Flame Convoy. It had come into existence long after his exile from Cybertron – he could not have been conditioned to withstand it. And though the dragon had fought Unicron, Downshift doubted he’d ever been _directly_ exposed to the demi-god’s power. He could almost imagine Jetstorm’s new edges slicing through that smug face… Runway’s tip piercing the stolen organic heart…

But…

Removing the Mini-con trio from the separation device, now, may do them irreparable damage. Though there were no outward signs of disentanglement, who could speak to the nature of their psyches? Sonar and his friends could be but breems away from regaining the ability to communicate, or from re-learning how to end their enforced merging. Who was he to risk their lives in exchange for those of the Autobots?

A long ago argument with Rodimus pricked at his thoughts. On Speedia, Downshift had been willing to throw out the Autobot code and _steal_ the Planet Key if it meant saving the universe. The cavalier, so young then, had shouted him down… shamed him. Rodimus, fuelled by disgust, had even compared him to Megatron. That had irked Downshift, even as he silently stood by the decision he’d been prepared to make. Sometimes, the needs of the many were so great, so intense, that the few had to be denied the luxury of conscience, of ethics and morals, in order to safeguard peace and justice.

The Star Sabre, locked in its transparent sick bed, could end Flame Convoy’s existence and save the lives of everyone in Fortress Maximus. By extension, that saved everyone on the planet… and by _further_ extension, spared the universe the ravages of space/time distortion generated by the dragon’s presence. It was, as Armourhide would have put it, a “no brainer”.

_Dare I?_

\-----

He’d caught up too quickly, trapping them on the roof of the tower.

Ultra Magnus beat his fists against Flame Convoy’s muscular shoulders. The behemoth didn’t register the blows – he just kept _squeezing._ To one side, Snarl choked and gasped as a the serpent heads coiled tighter around his neck; its twin snagged Scattorshot’s leg in its jaws and was biting down with full force.

The other RIDs were paralysed. Jazz, Smokescreen and Armourhide were experts, but none of them could fire their weapons without shooting their comrades. Divebomb, too, was frozen in place; his face plate wracked with indecisiveness. Magnus realised, to his horror, the Terrorcon was weighing his options; trying to decide if he was better off slagging all four of them at once, or exercising caution for the sake of his temporary allies.

Flame Convoy was _hissing,_ his boa-like arms coiling ever tighter around Magnus’ midsection. “As a hunter, I should not pause to savour this moment,” he said. “But as a god, it is my right and duty to receive sacrifices with the proper amount of decorum and ceremony. You three shall begin the festivities.”

Magnus improvised. Knife-edged chops to each serpent head freed Scattorshot and Snarl; they bounced, clanged and rolled out of the way. Shunting internal systems and pipelines, Magnus dumped an entire Energon cell into his jet pack and fired the engines.

The exhaust ports went nova almost instantly, having no effect on the heat-resistant Flame Convoy but wreaking havoc on the tower beneath him. The beast lost his footing in the molten steel and started to fall back; Magnus peppered his foe’s head with a blinding series of jabs and uppercuts until his grip slackened. Slipping free, the Autobot added a kick to the mid-section for good measure.

“Cryo,” he barked.

The Terrorcon made his choice. Two metal feathers ratcheted upright from Divebomb’s legs; the avian warrior snatched them free and hurled them at Flame Convoy’s feet. Upon detonation, they sent waves of cryonic freezing compound into heat-warped metal, solidifying it into a trap.

Stuck fast, Flame Convoy bellowed – only to catch a live grenade in his open mouth. It erupted, crowning him with a plume of incendiaries, just as Armourhide tossed three more bombs at his writhing frame. The twins added rockets to the chaos, painting the night sky with streaks of crimson and brilliant, burning orange.

“Just so ya know,” Armourhide called, “I’m almost outta ammunition. On account of it having as much effect as throwing popcorn at dis guy and all!”

“I’ve got one rack left,” Smokescreen added tersely. From expressions on the faces of Jazz and Scattorshot, Magnus could tell they were nearly tapped as well. Re-taking his rifle, he saw its power cells were nearly drained – and that engine stunt had taken a chunk out of his endurance, as well.

He glanced over the edge of the tower and down at the smouldering cannons, then back at his wrist display. “Two minutes,” TAI said brightly. “Hang in there.”

Lectures from a non-living computer system were _not_ what he needed, right now. Reinforcements could be useful, but would never arrive in time. Internally, Magnus was toying with the idea of destroying the entire base – sending the whole place nuclear, with Flame Convoy inside. The danger was it may not work, which would leave them without the supplies necessary to fight back… and, worse, give the Terrorcons the upper hand in the ongoing guerrilla war. _If that is an option,_ he thought glumly, _then it’s the absolute last option._

A burst of static sounded in his left aural sensor. “Get everyone back,” Downshift said urgently. “I’m only going to get one shot at this, so it has to count.”

“Understood,” Magnus said as he closed the channel. “Safe distance,” he yelled, making sure Divebomb had taken note of the order as well. “Incoming!”

The Terrorcon was the fastest to move, transforming and climbing up into the air. Scattorshot and the others withdrew to the edges of the monolith; Snarl padded a defensive circuit around the still-struggling Flame Convoy, lingering at the very edge of the safe distance. Downshift would never get a better opening.

Magnus had expected the engineer to arrive with a squeal of tyres and the _thrumming_ of a bizarre weapons system. Instead, Downshift charged out of the hatchway on foot, arms across his body, dragging something along behind. He held it with two hands, like a melee weapon, and its tip crackled and spat with a form of energy that seemed strangely familiar. In fact, it looked like the…

_Oh no. He didn’t._

“Brace for impact,” Magnus yelled, dropping to the ground and covering his face with his hands – for all the good it would do. Through slats in his fingers, he saw the other Transformers gasp with disbelieving shock and fright; watched as Downshift brought the Star Sabre up and, with frightful velocity, swung it at Flame Convoy…

The mystical blade never connected. Off-balance, hurting, blackened by explosions, Flame Convoy still possessed enough sense to block with his flail. Ancient, Primus-forged battle axe connected with Unicron-built broadsword… and the world _exploded_ into white light.

Magnus could hear his troops screaming. He could _just_ see Downshift vibrating in place, struggling desperately to maintain his grip on the Star Sabre. The weapon’s colouration was shifting rapidly – from golden purity to silver nobility, to the black and purple of corruption – as it shuddered and ground against the flail. Flame Convoy, too, was shaken by the impact and had his weapon locked in a two-handed death grip.

“I think…” Downshift cried, “I fracked up…”

The alabaster coronet intensified, pushing spikes of pain into Magnus’ optics. He blinked, feeling the fire of a sun on his face plate, and hunkered down as much as he could. Waves of heat and sizzling energy scalded him as they passed, the white bubble of opposing forces bursting with spectacular force. The eruption of power hit the edges of the time-displacement field and _rebounded,_ slamming Downshift and Flame Convoy into one another. Each mech grunted, lost hold of his armament and was tossed to opposite sides of the tower. Downshift actually went over the edge – only Smokescreen’s quick reaction saved him from a messy death on the ground below.

The ricocheting energies coalesced where the pair had been standing, leaping and writhing with dizzying force. Like a cyclone, it churned the air around it and threatened to throw everyone – Autobot, Terrorcon and Animatronian alike – into the air. Magnus dug his powerful fingers into the steel and held tight. Tugs on his legs made him realise Snarl, Scattorshot and the others had formed a living chain with him as its anchor. Though his arms strained at the added weight, he was determined not to let go… and breathed a sigh of relief as the winds died down.

Magnus looked up. The combatants were no longer alone on the roof top.

A figure, black even against the night sky, stood where the energies had collided. It was almost impossible to see at first – so dark was its armour, so angular were its features. Then two red optics blazed to life, glowing with unremitting horror and hatred, and Magnus knew what had happened. In his haste to save the day, to find a genie that would rescue everyone, Downshift had instead uncorked a _demon._

The malevolent entity rolled his massive shoulders, spreading his beast mode tusks ever broader. He stretched out his arms – holding the mottled Star Sabre aloft in one technorganic hand, and Flame Convoy’s flail in the other mechanical fist. The weapons were pulsing with blood-red light, matching the glow emanating from the creature’ chest and the Dead Matrix within it. Feet, more like cloven hooves, gouged into the tower’s surface and flexed, allowing powerful legs to reassert themselves. Optics raked over the assembled Transformers and did not stop until they had zeroed in on Flame Convoy… who, shockingly, appeared taken aback by the being’s sudden arrival.

Nemesis Prime pointed at the dragon with its own weapon. “Filth of Primus,” he intoned, “make peace with your ill-begotten origin, and the perversions you have wrought upon your form since. I have come to redress old ills, and make you _my_ prey.”


	3. Chapter 3

A dragon sailed through the air. Flightless, it moved not under its own power but unwillingly… tumbling through space with a hideous cry of fear.

A mammoth followed close behind. Though likewise unable to control its descent, the beast – its hide darker than the night sky around it – bellowed gleefully, remorselessly, as it pursued the giant lizard to the ground below.

A twin-barrelled canon stretched between them and the earth. The crimson weapon was an item of deliverance; having been activated by its owners, it was just seconds away from achieving its full power and potency. Given but a few heartbeats more, the tubes – far larger than both the dragon and the mammoth – would be able to unleash destructive fury on a massive scale and, it was hoped, rescue its owners from certain death.

The dragon crashed into the middle of the right-hand cannon, snapping it off. The mammoth ploughed through the left-hand cannon – it shattered, musically, under the impossibly dense weight. Ruined, blood-red pieces of weaponry slammed into the grassy clearing along with the feuding beasts, creating a bizarre environment in which they continued to battle.

Far above, atop a tower built by giants, an observer watched the struggle.

“Crap,” Armourhide grimaced. “Crap, crap, _crap._ ”

Ultra Magnus pushed his way past the commando; the rage within him directed at one Transformer and one Transformer alone. “Are you insane?” he bellowed, crossing the broad rooftop in just a few steps. “The only thing worse than having a monster loose in the base is having _two_ – and that’s what you’ve created here!”

Downshift didn’t reply. The engineer was curled around himself, almost in a ball, on the very edge of the roof. He’d been like that since Smokescreen had caught him and pulled him back to safety, during the explosion. The red-and-blue Bugatti was watching, mystified at his comrade’s behaviour. Jazz and Scattorshot, too, looked concerned.

A loud _crunch_ echoed from below. “That’ll leave a mark,” Armourhide, still peering down at the chaos, quipped. “If dere’s anything left o’ him by da end.”

“On your feet, soldier,” Magnus growled harshly, hoping to shock Downshift back to full function. “I said _get on your feet!_ ”

The green-and-black mech stayed right where he was. Displays on the sides of his head strobed erratically, in time with his muttering. “No… no frelling way,” he said, over and over again. “It doesn’t work that way, Kicker… not at all. Doesn’t work that way…”

Magnus understood and, despite his fury, felt pity for his friend. Summoning Nemesis Prime had caused him to regress. Downshift was re-living his last encounter with the sin-eater of the Transformer race… a battle that claimed the life of the Autobot journalist Tow-line. He was no mecha-psychologist, but Magnus keenly understood what sort of impact Nemesis Prime’s return was having on the engineer. After all, he’d experienced it himself with Flame Convoy.

He’d gotten over it. Downshift, it would seem, could not.

Magnus stepped forward – his rage gone – and gently placed a hand on Downshift’s tortured form. From out a pouch on the engineer’s leg he took a drill-tipped needle loaded with an emergency shut-down virus… the Transformer equivalent of an anaesthetic shot. He drove the device into the side of Downshift’s neck. The anguished Autobot jerked once, fell silent, and then dropped into unconsciousness.

“It’s for the best,” Magnus whispered sadly. “He’s no help to us now.”

\-----

Divebomb hovered above the giants, watching intently.

As a devout follower of the True Path, he didn’t _believe_ in Nemesis Prime. It was a mere Autobot legend, a weak-willed way of explaining their oh-so-sickening altruism and dedication to the preservation of others. An excuse for being pathetic. He figured the ‘bot below him was some kind of super-weapon, kept on ice for whenever Optimus Prime needed to scare some loyalty into the rubes or take out a big threat.

He had to admit, threats didn’t come much bigger than Flame Convoy. If the rest of the Terrorcons had been here, Divebomb would not have been concerned. They’d done pretty damn well, back on Animatros, kicking the stuffing out of the dragon. Heck, they’d been so efficient he broke off to spar with Swoop – just like always – and then come back to the main battle.

The Terrorcons would be able to ace both Flame Convoy and “Falsimus Prime”… but they weren’t here. No, he was stuck with _loser Autobots_ who were yak-yak-yakking back on the tower. Divebomb was more interested in the fight… in cataloguing Flame Convoy’s injuries so he knew just where to deliver the final, fatal blow.

It was a bird thing.

Nemesis Prime swung the flail across his body. Flame Convoy transformed and caught it by its broad, flat surface. Powerful orange talons gripped tight and _pulled,_ seeking to reclaim the ancient weapon. Nemesis relinquished it willingly, causing the dragon to lose his balance. Still, the dark warrior could not strike quickly enough to get through Flame Convoy’s guard – the dragon used the flail’s handle to block the Star Sabre, the impact giving off another flashing coronet of energy.

“Call me filth, will you?” Flame Convoy raged. “I served our creator loyally, unlike you! I suffered my exile gladly, finding ways to improve myself and rise _above_ the station of both Primus and Unicron! You are nothing more than a hunting dog, a slavering beast toadying to a master long since dead! I am a _god_ , and I will _smite_ you from off the face of my new kingdom!”

Nemesis Prime laughed. “Come then, deluded one,” he rasped, beckoning with the sabre. “Show me how far your divinity extends.”

\-----

Cries, wails, insults and the clamour of battle drew them all, moth-like, to Armourhide’s side. The sight that greeted them was horrifying in its intensity. Nemesis Prime had returned to robot mode and was swinging wildly, keeping Flame Convoy on the run. If the dragon drew close, or tried to strike, Nemesis lashed out with the blinding brilliance of the Star Sabre, hacking chunks from his foe’s technorganic chassis.

“I came to this party late,” Smokescreen breathed. “Anyone want to tell me what’s up?”

“That there hammer was forged by Primus itself,” Scattorshot began. “Ol’ Flame Convoy was built ta work in th’ Plasma Energy Chamber, hammerin’ out Transformer bodies an’ sendin’ ‘em out t’ fight Unicron.”

“The Star Sabre was built by Unicron,” Magnus added. “In many ways it’s the last receptacle of his power because the other two super-weapons – the Requiem Blaster and the Skyboom Shield – haven’t been used in almost twenty years.”

“An’ whut happens,” Scattorshot interjected, “when a weapon made by th’ ultimate evil gets used for the first time in a good long while?”

“It sends out a signal,” Magnus finished, “to anyone sharing the same power source. Nemesis Prime’s got a grudge against any surviving members of the original 13 Transformers. Chances are this is the first time he’s been able to find Flame Convoy,” he gestured at the grim spectacle, “and he’s making up for lost time.”

Snarl padded forward. “It was rumoured, on Animatros,” he growled, “that the dragon’s sole fear was the shadow. It was said the shadow could take any form, provided it was blacker than the darkness itself. It did not feast on flesh or metal, this entity, but instead tore the very life from one’s body and added it to his own.”

“The Dead Matrix,” Magnus confirmed. “Nemesis Prime wandered the battlefields of the first Unicron conflict to collect the Sparks of the fallen. Somewhere along the line he got sick of the job and joined forces with the Chaos Bringer, and the rest is history.”

“You mean mythology,” Jazz blanched. “We’re facin’ a soul-stealer from the dawn of time _and_ the demi-god of the jungle planet, after all.”

\-----

The flail descended. A bright red _tonfa_ unfurled from Nemesis Prime’s desiccated left arm and knocked the blow aside. He swept the sabre upwards, slicing off one of Flame Convoy’s orange shoulder spikes. The dragon growled with pain but pressed on, driving his weapon’s handle into Nemesis’ midsection. The obsidian giant bent over double but would not be denied. From out the fleshly shields on his legs sprung missile launchers; two crescent-shaped warheads leaped into the air.

Serpent heads snapped into place on each of Flame Convoy’s shoulders. The first spat a shower of ice – the frozen bullets shredded one of the missiles and it crumbled to dust. The second missile was engulfed in a cloud of fiery fog belched by the other head and _liquefied,_ its molten remnants splashing over the grass and dirt.

Nemesis Prime dance back, clearing space between them. He reached over his shoulders, toward his back, with both hands – sheathing the Star Sabre and claiming a new weapon all at once. The replacement resembled a mammoth’s head and truck, complete with burning red eyes.

As Divebomb watched, the cranium transformed into a long, ugly cannon and barked twice, peppering Flame Convoy with bolts of sizzling plasma. The dragon took both shots in the chest but stormed forward, undaunted, vomiting more ice and fire into the gap to cover his approach. Nemesis Prime dropped to one knee and fumbled with the weapon – unbelievably, it was so ancient is required manual re-loading!

Divebomb saw his chance. With a screech, he dove at the simulated bogeyman and pressed his talons into its eyes. The beast howled, unprepared for both the attack and the pain, and slumped forward. Transforming, Divebomb took up his Energon scythes and slashed at the thick, hairy back, cutting the Star Sabre free from its sheath and bloodying the ground around his feathered feet. Nemesis Prime moaned and fell onto his face.

The avian warrior looked up. Flame Convoy loomed over him, his face a mask of unpitying death. The dragon’s nostrils – all of them – were flared, its multiple rows of fangs bared, its breath smelling of sulphur, dry ice and decay.

“You’re next, false god,” Divebomb announced.

The flail moved with dizzying speed, catching him in the chest and caving it in. Breathless, almost off-line already, Divebomb hurtled through the air and splashed down in the lake, sinking immediately.

\-----

“Our saving grace,” Magnus said grimly, “is that, right now, Nemesis Prime is more interested in Flame Convoy than in killing us.”

Scattorshot looked up. “Uh, Big Bot?” he asked tremulously. “That in itself’s gonna be somethin’ of a problem, ya might find.”

They all followed his gaze. The skies over Fortress Maximus had turned blood-red. Pink and crimson clouds swirled in a near-hurricane pattern, whipping up winds that tore at them and the foliage below. Lightning stabbed at the ground, bringing with it thunder that almost blew out their audio sensors. Bizarrely, the phenomena extended only as far as the boundaries of the time-displacement field and did not affect the “outside world”.

“Y’ain’t gonna believe this,” he winced, “but gravity is going all outta sorts.”

Scattorshot’s sensor array had been upgraded by the blue Planet Key. The diminutive Autobot didn’t see visual stimuli as much as he read incoming data – where others saw clouds, he saw meteorological surveying reports. All of that amazing information came through the large yellow discs on his forehead.

“Th’ time-displacement field’s feedin’ it, an’ there’s some odd chronal energy fillin’ the space around us. It’s like a cold front hitting a warm front and makin’ a cyclone, ‘cept we’re talking ‘bout gravity and space-time collidin’ with… well, with _dark matter._ Only time I seen somethin’ like it was 10 years ago.”

They all remembered the singularity… the black hole… that nearly swallowed Cybertron and the rest of the universe. The gaping, jagged tear in space had been Unicron’s funeral pyre, and they’d all come hellishly close to losing their lives because of it.

Armourhide finally tore his optics from the battle. “Yer telling me,” he rasped, “dat we’ve somehow got all da factors here you’d need to create another universe-eatin’ black hole, and we’re right at da centre of da fragging thing?”

Scattorshot counted off on fingers. “Distorted environment; gravity fluctuations; enclosed space for a reaction ta form in; mad beast-bot from the future twisting th’ time stream; power o’ Unicron flyin’ all over the place; oodles o’ hatred and ill-feeling, which is whut chaos feeds on.” He gulped. “That’s one heck o’ a recipe.”

“We’re not gonna die, we’re gonna _cease to exist_ ,” Armourhide wailed. “Dis just isn’t my day.”

Smokescreen shook his head. “I’m a little out of my league,” he groused. “Gods and monsters, time and space, end-of-the-world stuff.”

“Welcome ta the core Autobot team,” Scattorshot said. “This is why they call us Th’ Impossibles, ya know.”

“Yeah, fine,” the diversionary tactician sneered, “but how do you stop _this_?”

Magnus looked at Downshift’s crumpled chassis. “I have no idea.”

\-----

At last… at long, _long_ last… it was _quiet._

Transformers were never truly “out of it”. Each Autobot had, within, a “black box” that continued to receive stimuli while they were off-line. That was why anaesthetics had been created in the first place – it’s very hard to operate on a patient who’s still feeling everything that’s going on. The virus component of the shot separated the conscious mind from the data feed, giving one a sense of distance… of detachment.

As such, Downshift was aware of all that transpired around him – he heard and agreed with Scattorshot’s analysis of the crisis – but he was _calm_ about it. Mechanical. A disembodied mind, a Spark, floating in a sea of information that could not drown him, could not overwhelm him… could only ebb and flow around his freed mind.

Years had passed since Downshift had last felt this way.

He’d been busy in that time, of course. Working hard, doing his best to make sure no one else got hurt… no one else died… that everyone else was protected as best they could be. No more fatal stasis lock on _his_ watch, thank you very much. Downshift had focused on the needs on fortifying himself – staving off the reaper. Staving off Nemesis Prime. Outward concerns had consumed him, leaving no time for introspection.

That, he realised peacefully, had been somewhat silly.

Downshift didn’t “sleep” all that well. Never did his processor detach from external stimuli. He didn’t dream, as some Transformers did. He worked in his sleep, using the “quiet time” of routine shutdown to plan, sketch and design new forms of armour and shielding. He couldn’t do that right now, thanks to the anaesthetic and the light-headed sensation it generated. He was lost within his own mind… his deeper thoughts. The quieter ones that didn’t come to the surface all that often.

He remembered that it had been 10 years since his last medical examination. Since his last maintenance check. Since anyone looked over his chassis besides himself.

That, he realised peacefully, had also been somewhat silly.

Red Alert would have done it, happily, at any time. The chief surgeon probably would have welcomed the trip to Earth. He’d have come to Fortress Maximus and they’d have chugged a few quarts of oil. Then, Red Alert would have presented his diagnosis.

“You’re suffering post-traumatic shock,” he would have said. “You’ve yet to properly deal with Tow-line’s death, and your feelings of guilt over the incident. You blame yourself for using a tree against a demi-god; for not coming up with a stronger, better, cleverer solution. It’s intensified your natural fear of your own mortality and driven you to obsessive behaviour. That behaviour has been reinforced by the praise of Optimus and others, because they can only see the boon given by your focus on defensive technology.”

Then he would have sipped his oil again.

“What you must come to understand,” he would have continued, perhaps chewing on an Energon goodie at the same time, “is that your guilt is misplaced. Nemesis Prime is not a creature of science, as far as we understand the term. He was birthed from the primal forces of the universe – from dark matter, from creation and entropy – and exists somewhere outside the physical laws we obey. You could have used a tree, you could have used the most advanced nano-disassembling cannon in the Autobot arsenal, and the results would have been the same.”

It wasn’t the sort of criticism Downshift would have accepted from just anyone. Rodimus, especially. But he respected Red Alert – even if he was just imaginary – and so would have kept listening.

“Nothing you could have done, Downshift, would have saved Tow-line. One day, you’ll accept that. One day, you’ll put your faith in science aside and realise the power held by our Transformer religion. Yes, there are scientific explanations for Primus, Unicron and everything else. Yes, it is just a matter of one’s perspective. But even viewed as science, Nemesis Prime and his ilk are of science _beyond our current comprehension._ And you can control that no more than you can control the gravitational pull of celestial bodies, or the passage of time… without the Speedia gems, I mean.”

Knowing Red Alert, he’d have taken one more swig of oil before concluding.

“You’re suffering a mental illness – not CINS, but similar – that arises from your own guilt and ego. Not to be fatalistic, but Tow-line could not be saved by you or anyone else. No amount of protective shielding will save another mech in the same situation. Put bluntly, Downshift, you’ll be well again only once you’ve accepted two essential facts about this universe.

“One: Nemesis Prime is a demon.

“Two: You can’t defeat demons. You can only banish them, for a time.”

Dreamily, Downshift shrugged. When put that way, it was all pretty simply. He’d just never stopped to think about it. As an honorary medic, the first thing he always did for mentally ill patients was to sedate them. Nine times out of 10, that allowed them time to grasp the nature of their problem and express a willingness to combat the condition. Maybe he should have given himself a shot years back – or actually talked to Red Alert in the days leading up to Tow-line’s funeral.

Not doing so, he realised peacefully, had – once again – been somewhat silly.

He also realised he owed Rodimus an apology. The kid had been right about him.

\-----

Mumbling prayers of recovery, Divebomb pulled himself from the water and flopped onto the banks of the lake. That had _hurt._ The flail dent was still there, in the metalwork of his chest, but was healing. He could hear rivets popping and steel bending back into shape. _Transmetal life,_ he smiled. _There’s nothing better._

A sonic boom caromed through the clearing, causing the lake to ripple and wash over his aching head. Nemesis Prime and Flame Convoy were _both_ in their beast modes, struggling with unrelenting hatred. All three of the dragon’s heads were snapping, biting and chewing on the mammoth’s sinewy hide; the black pachyderm’s tusks had stabbed deep into the dragon’s chest and his trunk had snaked around his enemy’s thick neck, _squeezing_ viciously.

Divebomb shuddered, remembering how it felt to be strangled by an opponent. Flame Convoy was not enjoying it, either – the flesh on his central head and neck was purpling with a lack of oxygen. The Autobots had built their tinker toy well; its choice of tactics confirming, for Divebomb, it was nothing more than a clever trick. As if some Unicron flunky would recognise breathing as a Transmetal’s one weakness!

“You compound your sin,” Flame Convoy gasped. “To deprive a being… of sacred air… is punishable by death!”

“I care not for your perverted thoughts, fool,” Nemesis Prime grunted. “The only interest I have in your processor is how it looks as I grind it to dust!”

Divebomb took a shaped charge from a pouch on his back. He’d learned, the hard way, that direct confrontation wasn’t going to fell Flame Convoy. It was time to fall back on stealth tactics, guile, and hitting from a distance. Soundwave, the big blue pile of slag, would have been proud… damn his useless mechanical hide.

The avian warrior connected his scythes, forming a large green boomerang. He secured the charge in the middle of the weapon and hurled it at the combatants. It looped high over their heads, dropping its small-but-potent payload right on top of the neck/trunk struggle. It exploded, untangling and staggering the bestial adversaries.

He watched with macabre interest. Flame Convoy’s head hung at a bad angle, most of its supporting neck atomised by the detonation. Nevertheless, metal struts began to regenerate and flesh moved and stretched over the gap, scabbing and healing. Nemesis Prime had lost the entire lower section of his trunk and looked more like an odd horse than an elephant – parts of his blood-stained tusks were gone, as well.

Flame Convoy allowed himself to heal. Nemesis Prime did not – he returned to robot mode and buried one hand in the dragon’s partly-healed neck. Flesh grew around it, holding him fast, but the dark mechanoid did not care. He had achieved his goal… his foe now could not break away.

Nemesis Prime’s arm sank, deeper and deeper, into the fallen god’s body. It was as if he were reaching for the dragon’s beating organic heart – perhaps his Spark core – so that he could tear it out. Divebomb saw crimson light pulse both within Nemesis’ chest and from out his optics; heard the cry of glee erupt from beneath his mask-like face plate.

“Your Spark is mine,” he roared, drowning out Flame Convoy’s gasps of protest.

Divebomb pondered for a moment. He had no desire to save Flame Convoy – the old god had already fallen from grace; now his corpse had to be kicked from the Path so new blood could travel it. Predacon had said as much in his sermons. Well, Divebomb was more than happy to let this powerful automaton do the work for him. After all: the Autobots would shut the hulking thing down once Flame Convoy was dead, and then Divebomb could start looking for ways to sneak out of the base and back to the True Path’s cathedral in the swamps.

He grinned sickly. First, he’d take a trophy. The dragon’s head would do nicely.

\-----

Should he go back online? Downshift wasn’t really sure. Knowing what had been going on in his head, these past 10 years, did little to erase the fear. Nemesis Prime was his every nightmare writ large; a being that could not be compartmentalised or countered. He’d thought Flame Convoy was bad, but the black bruiser was far, far worse. The dragon had been created by Primus, and all his upgrades since had been DIY. Nemesis Prime, meanwhile, was the product of the power of two “gods”.

As he’d done before, Downshift double-checked what he knew about the monster. He was one of the original 13 Transformers, designed to collect the energies of the dead and feed them into the Well of All Sparks. Having sided with Unicron, he was imbued with chaos powers – and was therefore able to alter his form to best suit the battle. He’d been seen both as a purely metallic Transformer and something akin to a Transmetal. He’d never been defeated, not even by his opposite number – Vector Prime. 

Meaning: Nemesis Prime was old, tough, resistant to energy, resistant to extremes of heat and cold, able to change his shape, manipulate space/time to some degree, able to self-heal while possessed of a beast mode and far stronger, more durable and resilient than a modern-day Transformer. _Wonderf…_

Wait just one nanoklick. Downshift was wrong. Nemesis Prime _wasn’t_ all of those things… and therein lay the chink in his armour.

Activating a set of sub-routines he’d specially designed, Downshift began deleting the anaesthetic virus from his processor and rousing his systems. Outside, the end of the world was upon the Autobots. Outside, the creature that had stolen his friend’s Spark was nearby, ready to repeat his heinous sin. Outside, a dragon waited to burn them all.

In the face of scripture made real, mad science was the only sane response.

\-----

“But don’t we _want_ Flame Convoy off our plates fer good?”

“Unicron fed off negative emotions,” Magnus said. “Aggression, hatred, anger, blood-lust, death and destruction. Just because it’s dead and gone doesn’t mean its servants can’t draw strength from those same sources. If Nemesis Prime kills Flame Convoy, in this environment, he could well be elevated to the status of dark god _and_ touch off the black hole! And anyway – do you really want Nemesis Prime to be any more powerful than he already is? Isn’t him having the Star Sabre bad enough?”

Lightning crackled overhead.

“Doubtless,” Snarl sneered. “And your plan is?”

Magnus opened his mouth, but was interrupted. “We separate them,” someone said.

Downshift was picking himself up off the ground. Anger welled within Magnus once again – fury at the situation in which the engineer had placed them – but he choked it down. Nemesis Prime had enough to feed on, right now, without another snack.

The engineer tripped as he made his way to them – Scattorshot caught him and helped him back to his feet. The larger robot smiled, head displays flashing, and addressed them.

“Cold front goes up against warm front, cyclone results,” he said, harkening back to Scattorshot’s original explanation. “Basic stuff – add fuels, get fire. So what we’ve got to do is remove the fuel sources from this storm.

“Flame Convoy _could_ get away at any time, just by dropping out of this time zone. He won’t, though, because he’s pig-headed and wants to win. But Nemesis Prime… he’s trapped here. He’s got no chronal power.”

Jazz arched an eyebrow ridge. “Didn’t he use time voodoo against Vector Prime and Tow-line, the last time he was here?” he asked.

Downshift nodded. “But not in _this_ configuration,” he declared, waggling a finger. “Not in this body. When he’s all metal, he can absorb and re-direct energy. But he’s not all metal right now, is he? Nemesis Prime felt Unicron’s power being used… by me,” he admitted sheepishly, “and came running. He adopted the form that best suits the battle – technorganic, so he could compete with Flame Convoy’s healing power. In the process he’s trapped himself in this very time shift – he’s got no circuit that’ll let him out of the mountain, and he’s got no way of manipulating events to suit himself.”

Armourhide pushed forward. “Now we’ve had the science lesson, can we have the solution to our predicament, please?”

“Someone has to lure Flame Convoy out of here,” he replied. “Lead him out through the mountain, down into the Global Space Bridge, away – some place deserted – and then take him down.”

“They’ll get slagged,” Jazz growled. “It’s a suicide run!”

“And the rest of us… well, the rest of us have to stay here and stop Nemesis Prime before this energy storm gets any worse.”

“If we can not?” Snarl demanded.

Downshift took a deep breath. “If we can’t, then we have to keep him within the time-displacement field. Then we disperse the ambient energies within the zone before they can build enough to create a black hole. And we do that by ordering Fortress Maximus to self-destruct and blow everything up… including us.”


	4. Chapter 4

The Star Sabre was only a hundred feet away.

Divebomb eyed the weapon like the greedy predator he was. His lack of belief in ancient legends notwithstanding, the condor had _seen_ the Mini-con weapon in action. He knew, from first-hand experience, the sword packed a wallop like no other piece of steel in the universe. And he knew that sort of oomph should belong to the True Path.

Changing to robot mode, dropping onto his belly, the Terrorcon crawled across the grass. He moved _very_ slowly, _very_ carefully. “Nemesis Prime”, or whatever it really was, had been swinging the blade like a professional. That meant the creature was likely attuned to it somehow. Made sense – the Autobots’d had the sabre in their possession for 10 years now; the best way to make your ultimate war-bringer a _real_ engine of destruction was to link it with something sharp, pointy and deadly.

Just a few more feet, now.

Impulses within him… bestial urges, flowing from his organic implants… cried out for release, for sudden movement, for _action._ Divebomb ignored them, falling back on the methodical patience that came from being a machine. It was an essential part of Predacon’s teachings – achieving true balance between one’s dual natures – and a lesson upon which the condor had focused. He’d never be as lethal as Battle Ravage, that he knew, but he worked to ensure he would never let the jaguar down ever again.

Inches, and the blade would be his.

Pincher-like hands stretched, their beaky endings mouthing for the sabre’s silver handle. They went unsatisfied – a horse-like hoof stamped down, crushing them. Divebomb howled as delicate circuits fused and flesh pulped and ran, like liquid, out from under the crimson foot.

“You overstep your bounds, little one,” a dark voice oozed.

“Whu?”

As he was lifted by the neck, Divebomb tried to scan around. There was a long, twisted shape nearby, writhing and dancing in the dim light. It took him a moment to recognise it as Flame Convoy, still in his dragon mode, fighting to breathe past the hand buried in his throat. Nemesis Prime hadn’t stopped choking the fallen god in order to deal with Divebomb, he’d _dragged his foe along!_

He came optic-to-optic with Nemesis Prime. The beast’s gaze was implacable, utterly lacking in both passion and contempt. It was far more frightening than the look of a hunter, or even a crazed beast… the ebony warrior looked at Divebomb as if he were _already dead._

“What an odd piece of technology you are,” Nemesis Prime rasped. “Along the same lines as _this_ one,” he squeezed Flame Convoy, “but more advanced. An evolutionary step forward, some might claim.”

The pressure around his own throat increased. Uncomfortable memories of the Global Space Bridge battle… of choking on that vermin Armourhide’s filthy fluid… came rushing back. Divebomb used his one working hand to slash at Nemesis Prime’s arm – unsurprisingly, the sparse damage healed instantly.

“I wonder what you’ve done to your Spark, in the process,” Nemesis Prime said, an edge of curiosity in his voice. “The Children of Primus believe their Sparks are immutable; unchanged throughout their long life-times. Preposterous. What one does in life marks their soul as surely as blood and oil stains their chassis. What comes, then, from stealing the life of another to add to one’s own? What odd bio-rhythms mingle with your personalised energy frequency, small bird?”

With a _snap_ and a _hiss,_ the creature’s chest-plate fell away. Gasping for air, Divebomb noticed it was hinged just above his midsection. Beneath the bulbous plate lay an ornate device carved from some sort of black metal. A red, segmented jewel sat in its centre, crackling with eldritch fire.

Suddenly, it was impossible to _not_ believe in the old legends… impossible to doubt the truth of what he faced. Nemesis Prime was _real._ And the Dead Matrix was about to claim his Spark.

Divebomb screamed.

\-----

“ ‘Scuze me fer bein’ blunt an’ all, but am I da only one not willin’ ta swallow dis load’a beryllium baloney?”

The diminutive commando stormed across Fortress Maximus’ roof. Angrily, indignantly, he jabbed a stubby finger at Downshift’s face.

“You tell is dis is da only way ta survive. Dat someone’s gotta go get ‘emself killed – but dat’s okay, because da rest of us are gonna get _blown ta slag_ or _swallowed by a black hole!_ My problem, bucko, is dat ya ain’t given us one _slaggin’_ reason ta trust you!”

Downshift stammered. “But… I mean…”

“Stow it,” Armourhide said nastily, “I ain’t done.” He gestured to the other Autobots. “I been watching dis weirdo ever since the fracas in da Global Space Bridge. Da first one. An’ I gotta tell ya, I don’t like what I been seein’. He goes inta battle an’ comes out without a scratch, he disappears for charming little chats with tall, dark and gruesome Terrorcons and he tries _rippin’ da living Spark_ outta someone who just needs a cycle in a CR chamber!”

He grabbed the engineer by the chest plate and pulled him down to face level. “Th’ way I see it, yer a loose cannon wit’ more’n a couple’a screws loose. You got some kinda obsession wit’ death, some kinda wish ta go offline, be my guest. But don’t go draggin’ da rest o’ us along fer the ride, all right?”

Downshift shrugged him off. “Okay, just calm down,” he barked. “I understand where you’re coming from – believe me, I really do. I’m the first to admit I’ve been wound too tight these last few… all right, this past decade. But I’m _okay_ now. All I needed was a little time offline, to get my processor straight, and I’m back to normal.”

Armourhide screwed up his face and arched an optic ridge contemptuously.

“Honest!”

The engineer looked around desperately, finding that same expression mirrored on the face plates of his colleagues. Too late, he realised the damage he’d done to his reputation. It wasn’t just Rodimus who doubted him, who wrote him off as a crackpot. Scattorshot, Jazz, everyone… they’d all noticed his behaviour; all reached unsavoury conclusions.

He stared imploringly at Ultra Magnus. The giant’s expression was stony; there seemed to be no life in the steel. “Destroying the base is not an option,” Magnus said finally. “I’ve already considered and discounted the tactic. So… you’ll have to make sure you find another way.”

“Me?’ Downshift asked.

“ _Him?_ ” Armourhide raged.

“Magnus,” the engineer began, “I don’t think you understand. Flame Convoy’s got to be led away from the base and, well, seeing as this is all my fault, I figured it should…”

“Be me,” Magnus interrupted, “and Snarl.”

“But…”

“Flame Convoy could leave this fight at any time but won’t,” Magnus continued. “You said that yourself. He came here for Snarl and, in a lesser sense, for me. Take us out of the equation and Flame Convoy has no reason to stay – all he needs to break off from Nemesis Prime is an excuse, and we can provide that excuse.”

“Yes,” Snarl growled, long and low in his synthesiser.

Magnus walked to the edge of the roof. “That leaves Nemesis Prime for the rest of you,” he said, casting his arm wide to include them all. “Take your orders from Scattorshot and your cues from Downshift. The base must _not_ be destroyed, unless you truly have no other option. Remember: that would only give Predacon and his group the upper hand, and we have to think past this one fight.”

He looked – no, _glared_ – at Downshift. “Don’t mess up.”

Before anyone could argue, Magnus stepped into space and fired his rocket boosters. The twin engines were severely depleted from his earlier stunt, inside Fortress Maximus, but they had enough juice for him to float to the ground below. Moving nimbly, Snarl leaped into the air and transformed to robot mode, landing atop the bigger robot’s shoulders.

“He’s abandoning us,” Downshift muttered angrily, shaking his head.

“He _trusts_ us, yah idiot,” Scattorshot snapped.

“Though why he trusts you is beyond me,” Armourhide said sourly.

“We need to get down there and run some interference,” Smokescreen said, his voice trembling slightly with nerves. “Reload on the way, keep Nemesis Prime zeroed in on us so he’ll forget all about his dragon playmate.”

“Solid,” Jazz said, punching his twin in the shoulder. Doubtless, he was looking to boost the other mech’s confidence – and his own. As Spychangers, the duo had been used to counter-intelligence work and long-distance assassinations. Dark gods and pseudo-deities were not their strong points. “Let’s roll for it, Autobots!”

The others transformed and raced for the hatchway, quickly disappearing into the depths of Fortress Maximus. Downshift watched them go, forgotten, feeling his sump sink with each passing second.

Obscene lightning flickered in the tempest above him, as if powered by his anguish.

\-----

“I would not have thought suicide to be among your tactics,” Snarl hissed.

“It isn’t,” Magnus replied curtly. “But dropping you from this height _is._ ”

“Faith, my leader, faith,” the wolf crooned. “There are no longer… issues… between you and I. My claws and fangs are ever at your service – I hunt the prey as selected by you, and nothing beyond.”

 _I wish I believed that,_ Magnus thought sourly, _even for a moment._ He knew how little a pledge of fealty from Snarl was worth. The lupine warrior was only concerned about his own survival and freedom. And while their last dealings had been in terms the white wolf could understand – domination through brute force – Magnus nevertheless doubted the sincerity of his words.

“So that we’re clear,” he said coolly, “I’d rather Scattorshot was backing me up. At this point I’d take anyone before you, save and except for Downshift. I don’t trust you, Snarl, and I doubt I ever will. You cross me during this fight, and I promise Flame Convoy won’t have a chance to kill you. Understand?”

Snarl swallowed hard. “Perfectly.”

They alighted next to a nightmarish scene. Flame Convoy’s central head was purple with lack of oxygen, the angry wound in his neck bleeding profusely as Nemesis Prime contorted his larynx and trachea. Unicron’s champion held Divebomb in his other hand; the Terrorcon was shuddering and twitching madly, his whole body heaving in agony.

Magnus quickly saw why: Divebomb’s Spark was being extracted. The ball, a fragment of Primus’ own energy, was… different… to any Spark Magnus had seen before. Rather than glowing with the crackling blue light of the Matrix, it shone with the deep green of plants. Even the particles looping and swirling around the central, life-creating orb were jade and, from a distance, resembled a mess of tangled vines and creepers.

He dropped to one knee and raised his rifle to his shoulder. The long weapon was in its single shot configuration; with a mental nudge, he caused it to transform to its multi-barrelled machine gun mode.

“What are you doing?” Snarl asked.

“The best thing about fighting a god,” Magnus smiled grimly, “is that you can do the unthinkable without consequence.”

The target sight flipped up and gave him tone; Magnus squeezed the trigger. Lead soared across the gap, impacting in the flesh and metal of Flame Convoy’s corrupted neck. The bullets tore through everything in their path and the thick protrusion _severed,_ falling backwards and hanging at a sickening angle.

Realising his death grip had become useless, Nemesis Prime let go. His fingers had barely uncurled when Snarl, in beast mode once more, pounced. The wolf sank his cruel fangs into the mammoth’s back. Long teeth, empowered by a Force Chip, punctured the creature’s entire body, exiting on either side of the Dead Matrix. Pushed from behind, the ancient artefact tore free from its moorings, clattering onto the ground.

Divebomb jolted once more as his Spark retreated into his frame. Nemesis Prime dropped him, too, utterly focused on retrieving his most prized possession. Snarl took the opportunity to detach himself from his foe and scurry away.

Magnus held his fire, waiting to see what happened next. Flame Convoy had toppled onto his side but was, as expected, healing rapidly. The Autobot commander watched with macabre fascination as bone knitted with metal, and skin and armour rippled over gaping holes and jagged wounds. Less than 30 seconds after receiving fatal wounds, Flame Convoy was whole again – and, once in robot mode, wholly focused on the new arrivals.

“Distractions be damned,” he barked, hefting his flail across his massive, muscled body. “I have waited aeons to face Nemesis Prime; I can wait aeons more if need be. That debt is old and far less personal – you two, however, must be wiped from the pristine plains of my new kingdom _immediately._ ”

Magnus stood up and tensed his transformation cog. If he drove at Flame Convoy again, slamming bodily into him, he could push the dragon through the mountainside exit portal and out into the real world. From there, it would be a simple matter of luring him into the Global Space Bridge and away…

“No,” Nemesis Prime cried. He had reclaimed the Dead Matrix and transformed to beast mode, wrapping his trunk around Flame Convoy’s legs and driving one tusk through the dragon’s technorganic hide. “I’ll be denied no longer!”

The heavens above screamed furiously for him – echoes of an ancient evil crying for the emotion on which it fed.

“What should we…” Snarl began.

Magnus threw himself bodily into the fray, desperately trying to separate the two gods. Powerful feet braced against Flame Convoy’s back; strong hands gripped the slimy, rank-smelling tusk in two places. The Autobot _heaved_ … only to throw himself backward into Nemesis Prime’s other tusk!

The curved piece of bone, augmented by steel, pierced his armour under his right shoulder and continued out through his forward plating. He could not ignore the frightful pain and so cried out, causing the mammoth to laugh happily. Indignant rage welled inside Magnus; too late he realised the skies darkened ever more with his anger. Willing himself to calm down, the giant channelled as much energy as he had to spare into his right arm and, releasing the tusk, threw his fist _down._

Pummelled by a frightful blow, the tusk broke off. Unexpected pain caused Nemesis Prime to rear back. Magnus wrenched himself free and pushed with his legs; Flame Convoy fell forward, out of the pachyderm’s grip and somersaulted for a few hundred feet. Every revolution took him closer to the exit portal.

Magnus stumbled onto his knees, hurting. He’d barely recovered his senses when Nemesis Prime pressed the attack. Enormous elephant feet stamped all around the exhausted Autobot. He flopped to his stomach and rolled, back and forth, narrowly avoiding his own personal stampede.

“You have no place here,” Nemesis Prime trumpeted. “You are but a successor, a weakling created in the image of the ultimate weakling! You trespass on the concerns of the infinite and, in your ignorance, condemn your Spark to my keeping!”

“My Spark’s different to any you’ve tasted, monster,” Magnus snarled.

He rolled onto his back and lashed out with both feet, kicking the beast in the stomach. Winded, Nemesis Prime rose into the air… directly into the path of Flame Convoy’s flail. The battle hammer swung in a wide, devastating arc and collected the dark warrior, driving him up into the air and into the side of the mountain. The mammoth impacted with a _crunch,_ then rolled back down to ground level.

Magnus glared at his old foe. “I won’t waste my breath thanking you.”

The dragon’s eyes were aflame with hatred. “Let those be your final words,” he roared.

Flame Convoy charged. For a moment, an icicle of fear stabbed into Magnus’ systems – his processor rewinding to his “death” at the hands of the beast, just weeks earlier. Again did the world above churn, welcoming another negative sensation to its pooling of malevolent energy and, again, did Magnus push his emotions to one side. He had sworn to be master of his own mind – now, all life depended on it.

As the flail passed within inches of his head, Magnus grabbed it. Accessing his _diffusion_ training, he allowed the momentum of the failed strike to take him from his feet, then redirected that velocity and used it against Flame Convoy. Intending to meet immovable object with irresistible force, the dragon continued forward without control, slamming his head painfully into the turf.

The dragon’s hind legs kept travelling up and over him – Snarl ploughed into the flailing limbs, head-first, to expedite their passage. The wolf transformed to robot mode as he sailed over his former master, the changed weight distribution giving him the leverage to slam the monster flat onto its back, staring up at the blood-drenched sky.

“Keep it tactical, not personal,” Magnus bellowed. “If you give in to base desires, we’re lost!”

Snarl bared his fangs unhappily. “I am no fool, Ultra Magnus,” he snapped. “I fully grasp the situation we face, though it be complicated and unusual.”

“For an Autobot,” Magnus grimaced, “this is a pretty standard day.”

“And you wonder why my loyalty wanes,” the wolf deadpanned.

The larger robot transformed to vehicle mode. Pain rifled through his internal systems – his frame did not like altering shape when parts of it were missing or punctured. “I think we’ve caught his attention,” he gasped as his parts shifted to form a car carrier. “You ready to prove suicide is a warrior’s last option?”

Snarl climbed aboard Magnus’ trailer section and fired a volley from his long-barrelled missile launcher. The ordnance splashed against Flame Convoy as he rose from the dirt; soil ran down his face like the entrails of a massacred animal.

“Provided you prove speed is not your weakness,” Snarl barked, “yes!”

Magnus accelerated, leaving behind a plume of exhaust and a sudden fireball that came all-too close. Ice knives crashed and splintered against his tail lights; the thundering sound of approaching feet spurred him to drive ever-faster. Back in dragon mode, Flame Convoy’s running pace was uncomfortably close to Magnus’ top speed when injured, yet he had to make it to the mountainside first if their plan was to succeed.

“Hurry,” Snarl cried, firing his weapon again. “Be this the limit of your ability, our deaths are _certain!_ ”

A blazing peal of laughter erupted behind them. “Make whatever pathetic attempts you wish, meat,” Flame Convoy called. “Death _is_ certain”

Internally, Magnus smiled tightly. “One thing I’ve learned, Flame Convoy, is that there are no guarantees in this universe. Not even death.” His rear licence plate swung down. “But I was pretty sure we’d tangle again, so I had this whipped up with you in mind.”

Tacks poured from a vent behind the licence plate, sparkling in the red glow of the unnatural night. Flame Convoy snarled derisively and ran right over them… just as Magnus knew he would.

The tiny pins dug into the fleshy pads on the dragon’s feet, immediately dumping their dual payloads: an organic acid designed to eat away skin and bone, and a neural virus that reprogrammed knee servos to tense and relax in random, uncontrollable spasms.

The dragon was not amused. “What have you… arrgh!”

Snarl looked down at Magnus’ cab. “Disabling someone whose pursuit we seek is a foolhardy tactic.”

“Faith, soldier, faith,” Magnus replied, injecting sarcasm into the wolf’s earlier words. “They’ll only slow him down – and maybe help him work up a real appetite.”

“Wonderful.”

They reached the chronal-shift portal a few hundred feet before Flame Convoy ploughed through the mountainside, warping time on instinct alone.

\-----

“Why doesn’t he transform?”

Downshift crept up next to Smokescreen. He and the other Autobots were peering out of Fortress Maximus’ main entrance, trying not to be seen. Divebomb had joined them, still gasping with exertion. Before them lay a grassy plain decimated by conflict; brush fires added thick smoke to the tumult of the partially-formed black hole. 

Nemesis Prime, meanwhile, was wandering. The creature trudged along, in mammoth mode, waddling back toward the Autobot base. His broken tusk was regenerating – healing much more slowly than did the Terrorcons – but his pace was ungainly.

“He’s not really technorganic,” Divebomb hissed.

They turned to look at him. His red face mask twisted in a mad parody of a grin. “Nemesis Prime just copies forms, doesn’t he? He looks like us – looks technorganic, like a product of the path – but is as inferior as all of you. His injuries aren’t healing, the bones are just re-setting so he can keep on fighting. Like a zombie.”

Downshift nodded. “Just like I thought.”

“Dat don’t explain why he ain’t transformin’,” Armourhide muttered.

Scattorshot looked the beast up and down. “He’s still givin’ off that there Unicron energy,” he drawled, “but there’s somethin’ else lingerin’ round, too. Not just him…” The small Autobot glanced at Divebomb. “It’s comin’ from you, too. Yer chest.”

The bird looked down. “There’s nothing there, idiot,” he growled.

“Not now,” Smokescreen said, coming back to life, “but there _was,_ a little while back. Flame Convoy thwacked you with his flail, right? The same hammer that he used way back when, in the Plasma Energy Chamber. The same hammer that, when smacked upside the Star Sabre, brought gruesome over there down on our heads.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ bird brain, that hammer’s crackling with energy… Spark energy. If the first Transformers had to be forged, like Magnus explained, then that hammer works on a sub-atomic level, right in between all the bits that make a Transformer more than inert steel.”

“Oh!” Downshift exclaimed. “Yeah! And if the hammer changes the nature of a material, and it’s only ever been used on metals before… Divebomb, can you transform?”

“Pfft.” The bird sneered at them and curled forward… but nothing happened. “Hey – what the frack have you wimps done to me?”

“Not us,” Downshift said, “Flame Convoy. His hammer has locked you… and Nemesis Prime… in one mode. Like a transformation virus or something. You’ve been rendered inert, in a sense, and trapped as you are.” He grinned at the Terrorcon. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s only temporary.”

Divebomb snarled. “You’re full of slag, Autobot. We of the Path have heard _dozens_ of tales of Animatros, where everyone was technorganic and Flame Convoy ruled by the might of his flail! No one, in any of those stories, ever got stuck!”

“An’ no one there,” Scattorshot interrupted, “got hit by th’ flail after it been slapped by th’ Star Sabre, either. Maybe that there collision… I dunno… re-set th’ hammer t’ its default settin’ or somethin’. Let’s face it: th’ laws o’ physics are bein’ pretty aggressively repealed right ‘bout now.”

Jazz cocked his head to one side, calculating distances. “End o’ the day, it don’t matter,” he said. “We got us a window o’ opportunity, I say we use it. Gotta be much easier t’ fight a ticked off elephant than a dude that swings swords and steals Sparks, right?”

“Heh,” Armourhide laughed mirthlessly. “Like we got dat kinda luck.”

“First thing’s first,” Smokescreen said, rubbing something between his right thumb and forefinger. He turned his back to the group and, especially, to Divebomb. Downshift peeked over his shoulder; watched him grind a small piece of skin into powder and feed it into a vent on his left forearm. A sample inadvertently provided by Flame Convoy, a little bit of onboard chemistry and _voila_ – the perfect lure.

The engineer was struck by jealousy, envy and shame. That was the sort of thing he _should_ have been creating, these past few months. Instead he’d been hiding… from everything and everyone.

“I’m off,” Smokescreen said. “Come up with something quick, okay? I like my Spark in its original container, if you follow my meaning.” He transformed into a red-and-blue Bugatti Veyron and tore off down the ramp, smoke billowing from his exhaust.

The mammoth noticed they moving grey cloud immediately. Its trunk rose, sniffing the air, and its massive ears swivelled from side-to-side. Muscles tensed beneath coarse, black hide as tree-like legs thundered to life, and the beast moved to pursue the speedy plume. No doubt he believed it to be Flame Convoy, trying to move under cover of smoke and smog. The diversionary tactician had done his work once again.

“Why is the big idiot chasing Smokescreen?” Divebomb asked, incredulous.

“Trade secret,” Jazz said nastily, grabbing the Terrorcon by the back of the neck. “Now get down there an’ give him some cover fire, chump!”

\-----

They’d made it through the Global Space Bridge _mostly_ unscathed. Not that there hadn’t been close calls – Snarl had narrowly avoided being charbroiled, once or twice – but for the most part, the virus-laden tacks had done their work. Flame Convoy’s pride and single-minded hatred had done the rest.

No matter what happened now, Magnus was at peace. He might die… again… and Snarl might die, but the greater danger had passed. There would be no black hole over Earth; the nightmare of the Planet Key Quest would not be repeated. That was worth his life.

All he wanted, now, was to take Flame Convoy out once and for all. Scattorshot was more than capable of handling both Nemesis Prime and Predacon – he knew his protégé was up to the task. But the dragon… he was Magnus’ problem. He’d sworn a second confrontation would be their last, and he would keep that vow no matter the cost.

The Transwarp exit was directly ahead. Magnus had used his onboard computer to pick a course through the labyrinth pathways of the GSB. Across the international dateline, near the Seychelles, there were hundreds of small, deserted islands upon which he could battle without fearing for innocent lives. He regretted having to sacrifice part of the world he loved, that he’d promised to protect, but he no longer had the luxury of choice.

“Are you truly ready for this?” Snarl barked.

 _As I’ll ever be,_ Magnus thought grimly, not answering out loud.

They exploded from out a cliff face into sunshine and tranquillity... with hell at their heels. Flame Convoy spilled from the rainbow-hued portal and onto the sand, cursing their names. Tiring of both the chase and the aching in his four knees, he transformed to robot mode and flexed his towering body. Magnus jack-knifed on the soft sand and transformed, standing tall against the most dangerous foe he’d ever known.

“Now!”

The unexpected voice heralded an equally surprising artillery salvo. Everything from ordinary missiles to biological warfare payloads rained down on Flame Convoy, driving the monster to its knees. The hidden firing squad followed their weaponry onto the beach… Sky Shadow, Chromia, Bludgeon, Cruel Lock and the rest of the Terrorcon forces, with Predacon in the spearhead position.

The cult leader smiled at Magnus’ puzzled expression. “Don’t look so shocked, Autobot,” he quipped. “I am no one’s prey… I am the hunter. Yes. And even if it means siding with you, I will _run down and devour_ this part of my past right now!”


	5. Chapter 5

“Mortality,” Downshift whispered.

He’d been reloading his shoulder cannons when it had occurred to him. Perched at the base of Fortress Maximus’ central ramp, he froze in place and allowed the thought time to fully form.

Smokescreen’s deception had not fooled Nemesis Prime for long – the mammoth had managed to flip the Bugatti onto its roof with one swipe of his trunk. Though trapped in beast mode, the dark warrior continued to do horrifically well… especially when his enemies made ill-timed hair-pin turns.

The Autobots, conversely, fared poorly. Smokescreen was not just upside-down, he was _out cold._ He was alive thanks only to a bombardment loosed by Jazz and Divebomb, which served to distract Nemesis Prime from his victim. Now they, too, were running for their lives – the Terrorcon perched on the black sports car’s roof, hanging on grimly as they sought to evade a one-mech stampede.

Scattorshot and Armourhide were trying to salvage the ruined base cannon. Though the guns were little more than scrap, perhaps the munitions could be converted into some kind of bomb. Downshift had little faith in the idea, but that didn’t really matter – as soon as Ultra Magnus and Snarl had left, everyone had stopped listening to him anyway.

It wasn’t _fair._ Yes, he’d spent the better part of a decade as a shell-shocked loon, but that didn't mean he was Bulkhead! Why wouldnt anyone accept that he’d been cured, cleansed of his aberrations thanks to some mental disconnection and a good rest? Had they been hanging around with humans for so long that they equated mechanical mental illness with biological psychology? Were they forgetting that, aside from CINS, all a Transformer needed to get back on track was a little re-wiring?

Or was he, perhaps, too eager to prove his self-diagnosis was on the mark?

That didn’t matter, either. The point was he’d figured out the chink in Nemesis Prime’s seemingly unassailable armour. The angel of death was afraid of his own mortality. It made a sick kind of sense, really. Vector Prime had disintegrated his arm and abdominal section, the first time the monster had “everged”, and drove him off. This time, he was locked in his more vulnerable animal mode and, as Divebomb had noted, lacked the healing powers of a real Transmetal.

“They key, then,” Downshift hypothesised aloud, “is to put the fear of death into him. If we can do sufficient damage to his form – break off a few pieces, expose some muscles and motherboards – we can chase him away!”

He tucked his replenished cannons away and transformed, roaring around the corner in the shape of a green muscle car. He saw Armourhide flinch at the sound of his engine.

“Guys, I’ve got it,” he cried.

They didn’t respond.

“Please, listen to me! I know what we have to do! Nemesis Prime will turn tail and run if we can…”

Armourhide turned around and glared at him. “Don’tcha think you’ve done enough damage fer one day, ya freak?”

Downshift had spent years improving his defences, but his friend’s hurtful words pierced every single layer and stabbed him right in the Spark. He sat there, in car mode, idling and dumbfounded.

“Just… just go give th’ boys some cover fire, ‘kay?” Scattorshot waved him away.

That tore it. Downshift locked his wheel to the left and sped off toward the battlefield. He drove through the middle of the conflict – steering to dodge both Jazz’s rockets and Nemesis Prime’s mad dash – and made for the chronal-shift portal in the mountainside.

They didn’t want to listen to him? They didn’t want to believe he was healed? _Fine._ He knew what had to be done and depleted, exhausted Autobots weren’t going to be any help anyway! At full power, they might have had a chance, but the mammoth wasn’t about to call a time-out for recharging. The cannons were gone and they’d emptied their high-impact arsenal at Flame Convoy… they might as well be throwing nuts and bolts at the dark warrior.

 _But_ in this form Nemesis Prime had no control over time; in this form he was vulnerable to disintegration; and it was while in this form a burst of chronal energy had saved the day.

Downshift knew just where to find chronal energy: in the time-shift device. More specifically, its power source – shards of the Force Chip that had almost destroyed Speedia. One of those, on the tip of a missile, would more than do the trick.

He pulled up by the mountainside, knowing he was well and truly playing with fire. The temporal distortion was the only thing containing the spread of the rapidly forming black hole. Done wrong, pulling chunks from it may release the spatial anomaly from FM Space – the area around Fortress Maximus’ area – into the “real world”.

He’d just have to be careful then, wouldn’t he?

Transforming to robot mode, Downshift reached for the hidden control panel. A section of fake stone slid away to reveal the triple-thick shielding around the device. Behind those layers was a pile of Chip pieces, their radiation strictly controlled so as to _bend,_ not corrupt, the passage of time. Cracking his knuckles and exhaling slightly, Downshift started to dismantle the first shield.

The portal beside him flared to life. A long, midnight blue piece of metal suddenly phased into FM Space. Two sets of vehicle grilles and headlights joined it, followed by a single headlight and windshield as found on a motorbike, and finally a tiny front wing. Time rippled, and five newcomers burst onto the scene.

Nightbeat, Checkpoint, Arcee and Zapmaster pulled up short, dazzled by the battle before them, and transformed to robot mode. Best of all – at least in Downshift’s desperation-fuelled opinion – the blue metal heralded the arrival of Thundercracker. The ex-Decepticon looped in the air and came down, in robot mode, wing sword already in hand.

“Pest control problems?” he asked sardonically.

Downshift looked them up and down. He noted their polished armour… their high-yield weaponry, perfect for hunting down rogue Decepticons… their obviously full fuel tanks… and smiled blissfully.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whooped. “Come on – you guys are just in time to do some _real_ damage.”

\-----

“You’re just in time,” Ultra Magnus said, “Conveniently.”

Sky Shadow was, unbelievably, patching Magnus’ tusk wound. Chromia had passed Snarl a shot of deutronium and a handful of Energon cubes. Predacon watched it all with a benevolent eye while, just ahead, his followers ploughed into Flame Convoy with all the abandon and savagery of wild animals.

“One of my better traits is punctuality,” Predacon crooned.

Magnus had been scanning, but the reptilian flyer had made no effort to infect his systems or plant a homing device. The patch was battlefield-rough but passable; he could move freely and most of the pain was gone. Snarl had sniffed the Energon in fear of poison but eventually gobbled it down. He’d declined the steroid with a growl.

“I’m still trying to figure out how you got here,” Magnus said suspiciously, “and why you’re bothering to help us.”

The Tyrannosaur waved his stubby hands. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Ultra Magnus. Surely, a tactician such as yourself appreciates the truth of that old cliché. Flame Convoy merely presents the larger threat to both our agendas, right now.

“Likewise, you are no doubt familiar with the value of a pre-emptive assault. I have your own cavalier to thank for the advance warning.”

 _Rodimus,_ Magnus thought internally, _what have you done?_

“As for our perfectly-timed arrival, well,” Predacon shared a knowing look with Sky Shadow, who nodded. “You can put that down to a… higher power. Yes.”

The Autobot commander had neither the time nor inclination to decode cryptic comments. Looking past his unexpected rescuers, he saw Flame Convoy begin to reassert himself. Broad sweeps of his flail knocked Wreckloose and Side Burn away; shards of ice had punctured Crumplezone’s tyres; and Bludgeon could not cut fast enough to account for the dragon’s impossibly-fast healing.

Too late, Magnus realised what had been happening. Flame Convoy had applied his new time-shifting abilities to his systems – as Dirt Boss had done before him. As a result, the dragon regenerated flesh and steel at a rate beyond that of the most powerful Terrorcon.

Like a shadow, Wheeljack squeezed underneath Flame Convoy’s defences. Energy batons flared to life; the yellow sticks drummed a staccato beat on the dragon’s chest and midsection. Smiling with malevolent glee, the serial killer flipped the batons in his hands and stabbed them down, burying them in Flame Convoy’s pelvis and thorax.

“Ha!” he exclaimed.

Flame Convoy looked down at the weapons jutting from him. One of his eyes twitched. The baton in his thorax disintegrated in a burst of flame; its ashes were carried away by the sea breeze. The second baton, in his pelvis, turned blue, then clear, and then shattered. Its remains melted on contact with the hot sand.

“How unimpressive,” the dragon rumbled.

He grabbed Wheeljack by the arm and swung the former Decepticon like a club. The killer’s flailing feet struck Cruel Lock, and then Battle Ravage, knocking them both into the surf. Flame Convoy lashed out with his living weapon twice more – claiming Insecticon and, once again, Crumplezone – before Wheeljack’s arm snapped off at the shoulder and he, too, was flung away.

The monster turned his attention to Predacon and, emphatically, crushed the severed arm.

“You heretical, traitorous scum,” he roared. “You’ll achieve nothing by this attack, do you hear me? All you have done is save me the effort of hunting you down! I shall eradicate your false church and bring purity back to our way of life!

“You, Fang Wolf, Ultra Magnus… _huntnomore_ is yours, as soon as I have dispensed with these irritating fools!”

Chromia smirked. “That’d be my cue, then.” She rose onto tip-toes and, surprisingly, planted a kiss on Snarl’s lupine nose. “See you later on, handsome.”

She ran off, limping slightly, to join in the fracas. Sky Shadow followed, hefting twin particle blasters. A blue aura surrounded him momentarily – his Force Chip causing his tail section to transform into a rack of missile launchers and flamethrowers.

Snarl blinked. Predacon sidled up to him. “She’s an incorrigible flirt,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You’ll have to excuse her enthusiasm. Chromia lacks religious devotion but occasionally makes up for it with her… varied passions.”

The wolf, recovering himself, favoured his former comrade with a toothy glare. “I’m certain you meant to say _perversions._ ”

“We all use the terminology that best fit our point of view,” Predacon said lightly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Fang Wolf?”

“My name is _Snarl._ ”

“Yes,” the Tyrannosaur leered. “Of _course_ it is. My point, exactly.”

\-----

They’d listened to every word he had to say. And it was _oh_ so sweet.

Downshift drove alongside his three fellow Autobots… beneath the shadow of an ex-Decepticon… and offered his thanks to the Matrix. At the same time, he felt a little guilty. He’d not seen Nightbeat and the others for 10 years – he’d been on Earth; they’d been operating as a somewhat-autonomous unit chasing down war criminals. Obviously, they had no knowledge of his… problems. They had no reason to distrust him.

 _Let me be right about this,_ he pleaded to any higher power that might be looking in on the battle. _Don’t let me frack this up again, please!_

“Locked and loaded,” Arcee called, her exhaust pipes reshaping into Energon weapons.

“On target,” Checkpoint said stiffly, his Energon turret swinging into place.

“All right,” Nightbeat said professionally. “On my mark…”

“Get left behind!” Thundercracker whooped, powering away from them and plunging head-first at Nemesis Prime. The beast, surprised, looked up at the knife-like plane zeroed in on his elephantine forehead. Trumpeting with fury, the dark mammoth swept its trunk up like a whip and brandished its long, curved tusks.

None of it connected. The ex-Decepticon stopped in mid-air, transformed neatly and swung his wing sword with all his might. There was a sickening _squelch_ and a geyser of blood, before the trunk sloughed off from the beast’s face and plopped onto the ground. Wasting no time, Thundercracker cycled his shoulder cannons into place; purple energy lanced forth and stabbed into Nemesis Prime’s broad back.

Even without a Mini-con boost – which would have fuelled the black hole – the beams pierced the weakened creature all the way through. The mammoth’s howl of pain served two purposes: it showed the dark warrior _could_ be injured, and it alerted the rest of the Autobots to the change in their situation.

Downshift was still grinning when Jazz and Divebomb fell in alongside him. “You invent some kinda teleporter or somethin’, dude?” the former spy asked.

“Nightbeat says they on their way here,” the engineer replied, “to tell us they’d figured out how the Terrorcons were avoiding our sensor sweeps. Protocol, Grimlock-style, slowed them up.”

“Pah,” Jazz mock-snorted. “They missed that boat.”

“So I told them,” Downshift said, “I guess they want to make amends!”

Divebomb, clinging to Jazz’s roof, shook his head. “Do you Autobots _always_ prattle on this much during a battle?” he sneered.

“Not always,” Jazz quipped, his tone brightening. “Just when we’re ‘bout ta win!”

He accelerated suddenly, causing the Terrorcon to yelp with surprise. The black Bugatti drove straight at Nemesis Prime, slamming bumper-first into the mammoth’s seeping face wound. Shaken free, but still stuck in robot mode, Divebomb planted his feet on the monster’s spine and dug his curved hands into the holes Thundercracker had blasted.

Nemesis Prime reared back, exposing his throat to Arcee. The Autobot valkyrie loosed a score of arrows from her Energon longbow, burying each and every one in the newly-visible weak spot. Thundercracker added more purple lasers to the maelstrom, almost severing one of the beast’s hind legs.

Nightbeat and Checkpoint transformed – then transformed again. Using their Spark of Combination, the duo Powerlinked into one super-powerful mechanoid. The combiner’s face plate was etched with seriousness as it threw punch after punch, staggering Nemesis Prime and preventing him from regaining equilibrium.

“Why… isn’t he… taking off?” the gestalt grunted. Its exertion was palpable – steel was flaking from its enhanced knuckles; its elbow and shoulder joints were already screaming from resistance. Despite its enhanced strength, Nemesis Prime was proving a tough nut to crack for the two-in-one mech.

Downshift thought for a moment; then slapped himself in the face plate. “Robot mode,” he cried. “He has to be in robot mode to teleport around the place!”

“So what do we do now, genius?” Divebomb yelled. Beneath the Terrorcon, the mammoth lolled and turned in dizzying circles, throwing him off.

The engineer took a deep breath. Returning to robot mode, he bolted each of his cannons to his shoulders, increasing their offensive power three-fold. It had been a long, long time since he’d been prepared to think like a gunsmith. He reached down with his right hand and tapped a sequence into the keypad on his pelvis, changing his payloads.

“I’m going old school,” he announced.

Autobots, ex-Decepticons and Terrorcons alike exchanged shocked looks and made for cover as fast as they could. That left Downshift alone with his nemesis.

One missile thundered loose from its launcher, arcing up over the beast’s shuddering form and exploding in a shower of clear liquid. The microburst soaked Nemesis Prime, throwing up an odious stench of wet animal and matting his long, black hair.

The creature chuckled and coughed through his barbed throat. “Pathetic,” he rasped. “Almost as pitiful as your attempt to stop me with a tree. You would throw water at me? Have you learned nothing, simpleton?”

“It’s not just water,” Downshift replied, waggling a finger. “Specially-treated water. A substance re-engineered, by me, to up its oxygen content while still retaining its liquid state. Because we all know oxygen’s flammable, right?”

Nemesis Prime’s red eyes widened, just for a moment. Downshift savoured the sight.

Missile number two rocketed away from his shoulder, disintegrating as it flew and unleashing a cloud of fire-fog. If dispersed in the atmosphere, the noxious, napalm-like substance blanketed an area with an impenetrable, burning atmosphere. But if fired directly at a living target, it slopped all over them, scalding as it clung. Applied to a wet subject… a wet subject giving off high levels of flammable oxygen…

“Bang,” Downshift whispered.

The explosion knocked him from his feet and threw him hundreds of metres into the air. He saw, close-up, the eddying nightmare that was the infant black hole. As the engineer twisted and turned in all directions, at the mercy of the tempest, he felt his chassis start to break under the strain.

The mushroom cloud of his mad scientist’s detonation swept up, right before his optics. Its turbulent force ploughed into the very centre of the swirling, negative energies that sought to gobble up reality. Crimson clouds began to disperse and were sucked up, taken away by rapidly-closing rifts of dark matter that turned white, then blue, and faded away. The red skies turned a more natural shade of orange – the colour of the sunrise, creeping over the distant horizon – as the crisis passed.

As gravity righted itself, asserting control over his now-plummeting form, Downshift realised he was going to die. It scarcely mattered. For one, he’d always planned on checking out during this battle. It was the only way to atone for the truly bone-headed things he’d done of late… especially, in his hubris, sending Magnus and Snarl to die.

And in dying, he’d accomplished far more than he’d planned. Nightbeat and the others had well and truly turned the tide – they’d capitalised on the damage wrought by Flame Convoy and weakened Nemesis Prime beyond his ability to cope. Downshift’s blast had not only incinerated the demon – heh, that’d prove his imaginary Red Alert wrong – and removed the source of the Unicron energy. It had also dispelled the fury of the black hole, just as detonating the base would have.

Two for the price of one. Life, that was.

The ground rushed up to meet him. He spread his arms wide, like the parachuting humans he’d seen on TV, and switched off his optics.

\-----

Ultra Magnus stood up. “As interesting as this _isn’t,_ ” he growled, “shouldn’t we be taking Flame Convoy down, right now?”

Predacon laughed and transformed to robot mode. “Patience, my gallant Autobot crusader,” he sighed, idly lashing his tail whip back and forth. “Remember, it is my congregation who have acquitted themselves best in battle with Flame Convoy.”

Magnus watched as Insecticon pulled himself from the surf. The grotesque Terrorcon transformed to robot mode and spread his insect legs wide. Bullets flew from each segmented foot; all failing to damage Flame Convoy.

Undaunted, the bug-bot pressed forward. Crumplezone, also in robot mode, knuckled after him. The dragon watched them, his expression a dangerous mix of pleasant anticipation and blood lust. Pausing only to back-hand Wreckloose – who had tried to attack from behind – Flame Convoy kicked Insecticon so hard that his talons became lodged in chitinous shell. The bug struggled to free himself but could not.

Displaying some true tactical acumen, Flame Convoy kept the writhing Insecticon between himself and Crumplezone. Though lacking in smarts, the giant from Speedia nonetheless knew not to attack anything wearing a Terrorcon insignia. He hesitated… and was lost. Flame Convoy caved in his drooling jaw with one punch.

Predacon scowled. “And some of them… the less devout… are useful only as cannon fodder, anyway. Better they fall in service of my ideal, and weaken our prey, than our chassis be put to the torch.”

Magnus shoved him to one side. “You’re a twisted mess, do you know that?” he said furiously. “I’d come to believe you were different from other Decepticon leaders of the past – no less despicable, but different nonetheless. I figured you for the sort of commander who cared about his troops; who did his best to ensure their welfare. Now… well, now I know you’re just another self-important rabble-rouser.”

The Transmetal cultist picked himself up off the sand. “You express your gratitude in a most disappointing fashion, Ultra Magnus,” he hissed. “And you display your typical Autobot blindness all too obviously.

“In this world, there are hunters and there are prey. Sometimes, it serves one’s purposes to run amongst the prey in order to lure out one’s enemies. At the end of the day, though, one swears fealty only to one’s pack… and such a group consists solely of other hunters.”

Looking carefully, Magnus noticed Cruel Lock and Battle Ravage were hanging back. They’d let Chromia and Sky Shadow overtake them, though neither had suffered significant injury. Bludgeon, too, kept to the edge of the conflict, going so far as to urge Sharkticon to attack while he waited. Just as Divebomb had hovered above the earlier fight, taking note of everything without striking at anything.

The more organic matter you had strapped to your frame, the Autobot decided, the higher up the Terrorcon food chain you were. You were more valuable and far less expendable than a “mere robot”. Anger welled in his Spark.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, grabbing his rifle. He’d been prepared to die if it would spare the lives of others – then he’d come across Predacon’s grudge and prejudice. “All life is sacred and, if I have anything to say about it, _no one_ dies today!”

\-----

“Welcome back to the land of moving parts!”

His first thought was: _Oh no, that’s Jazz’s voice… he must’ve been killed, too! Sweet Primus, how many have I sacrificed to my arrogance this time?_

His second thought was: _Hang on, he said moving parts!_

Downshift reactivated his optics. He was dangling, upside-down, in mid-air. The ground was but a few inches from the top of his head. Jazz was lying there, flat on his back, smiling happily. Glancing up, Downshift saw the reason for his new flight ability… Thundercracker was hanging onto one of his ankles.

“Autobots can’t fly, chump,” the aerial warrior tutted. “You should remember that.”

Jazz rolled out of the way and Thundercracker released his grip. Downshift clattered onto the ground, relishing every bump, scrape and dent. He was _alive!_ So was everyone else! And… they were being nice to him!

He stared up into a sea of smiling face plates. Even Divebomb looked happy. Scattorshot was bent over him like a mother hen, fossicking around his armour and making sure he was in one peace. Smokescreen looked addled but happy – Checkpoint and Nightbeat were supporting him on either side. Arcee looked at him fondly and Armourhide…

“Eh,” the commando said, hefting the Star Sabre, “so you can do _one_ thing right, den.”

Downshift couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh – and Armourhide quickly joined in. “Maybe dere is somethin’ to that off-line healin’ hooey o’ yours, ya weirdo,” he shrugged, “ ‘cause it sure felt like the ol’ Downshift was back fightin’ alongside us.”

“Ah’ll second that,” Scattorshot said. The little mech was beaming. “Just another sign that it’s all over now… right, Downshift?”

He understood. Yes, his time as a lunatic was over. His time of grieving for Tow-line was done. He’d exorcised his demons – both literal and psychological – and realised the folly of his defensive obsession. It was time to get back to work.

“It’ll be over,” he said, slowly, “once we’ve found Magnus and Snarl, and got them back here safe… and locked Divebomb up again.”

The Terrorcon looked like he was about to argue. Then he glanced at Thundercracker – who was smiling brightly, almost psychotically – and wisely chose to stay quiet.

The group made its way back to Fortress Maximus; Scattorshot and Nightbeat were already discussing attack plans. To Downshift, it looked well and truly like the RIDs finally had a chance of ending the guerrilla war, with a little help from some friends.

_Friends…_

He looked back at the battlefield. There was a large, shallow crater around the still-smoking remains of Nemesis Prime. The beast of his nightmares was now little more than a half-cooked carcass; a cinder that had once resembled a prehistoric animal. For a moment, he felt ashamed at the power he’d allowed the creature to hold over him. All because of the way he had disposed of Tow-line.

Downshift tapped thoughtfully on his chest grille… and the Spark catcher beneath it. The displays on either side of his head flashed. He had _another_ great idea.

He made his way through the loose dirt of the crater. Nemesis Prime was dead, right? What harm was there, then, in taking a peek at the Dead Matrix? According to legend, the beast had used it to rip out the Sparks of many a foe, over the centuries. If Downshift could _free_ those trapped souls, maybe store them in some sort of receptacle while new protoforms were built, the Autobots could perhaps _resurrect_ a mass of potential allies! And… they could bring Tow-line back to life.

Kneeling down by the steaming pile of hair and hide, Downshift activated the Spark catcher. His grille opened into a claw, the orange tip in its centre crackled with Energon. He leaned in close, immediately feeling a kick and a pull. Seconds passed… and a large, fiery orb began to poke through Nemesis Prime’s chassis and float toward Downshift.

It wasn’t large, it was huge; erupting with tendrils of red, amber and gold energy, and so powerful! It was not the Spark of a single Transformer… it was a thrumming mass of life energy, turned dark and cold by its captivity and separation from the Creation Matrix and the Well of All Sparks. It was _living anguish._

“Hey,” called a voice in the distance. Dimly, he realised it was Divebomb. “I can transform again!”

_Transform? But…_

A metallic hand burst from the smouldering mass. An arm flexed; a dark and angular head swung into view. Downshift watched – horrified, unable to move because the catcher was locked on to the giant Spark – as the broken pieces of Nemesis Prime tumbled out into the crater and formed a misshapen, corrupted parody of a Cybertronian body.

“Die,” the ghoulish thing rasped, its optics glazed and uncomprehending. “Die!”


	6. Chapter 6

Ignorant of allegiance… of religion, insignia and enmities… they attacked as one.

Ultra Magnus stood, shoulder to shoulder, with the tattered remnants of the Terrorcon army. Despite their leader’s confidence, the bestial warriors had fared poorly against Flame Convoy. Already, five of their number had fallen. Of those still standing, the purely mechanical soldiers were badly damaged, low on Energon… and those bearing flesh were tense and spoiling for a fight.

He threw a glance over his shoulder; Predacon met it with cool contempt and did not move. The cultist had made his opinion very clear: Magnus and Snarl should remain, with him, behind a wall built of his troops. The Tyrannosaur saw no reason to dent his armour when others would do so in his service. Well, that was far from Magnus’ style. He’d intervened and called the withdrawal; now, regrouped, the combined Autobot/Terrorcon forces were ready.

Their target, Flame Convoy, seemed unconcerned. The ancient warrior stood a few hundred metres away, surrounded by cool water and backed by the singing flames of brush fires – no more perfect a scene, for such a monster, could be imagined. Flame Convoy’s flail stood hammer-side down, and he leaned on its long handle. Waiting.

“Come one at a time or all at once,” he called. “It scarcely matters. I am Flame Convoy… greatest of the 13, power incarnate! This world is already mine to tend, and I shall pluck you from it as if you were _weeds._ Come, now, and die.”

Magnus’ only reply was to raise his arm… and drop it.

Four tiny shapes leaped into the air from behind him. Wind Shear, Gunbarrel, Terradive and Thunderwing transformed into their jet modes and streaked overhead, loosing their weaponry. At the same time, Cruel Lock and Snarl led a land-based contingent across the sand, directly toward Flame Convoy. Sharkticon and Chromia, meanwhile, had sailed a wide perimeter across the blue Seychelles waters, sealing the dragon in.

“Tactics,” Flame Convoy sneered. “How primitive.”

He took on his beast mode. The colouring of his body changed to polar hues. As golden highlights crept across his muscular form, he opened his mouth – vomiting a thick, icy cloud into the humid air. Missiles from the air strike froze on contact and dropped to the sand. Their payloads created a minefield around Snarl’s advance force, forcing the animals and vehicles to juke and weave. Some missiles splashed into the water, blocking Chromia and Sharkticon’s advance.

Just as Magnus had hoped. “Now,” he cried.

As planned, the ground force transformed to robot mode and scattered in all directions, hiding themselves amongst the brush fires. Sharkticon and Chromia pulled up short, their backwash flipping the lost missiles back into the air. The Mini-con jets broke formation and, from directly in front of the sun, Sky Shadow unleashed a storm of laser fire.

The purple blasts detonated the payloads. Their combined, concussive power threw Flame Convoy up into the air – into the path of the missiles from the water. Chromia transformed and, righting herself, touched off that ordnance with her four-barrelled blaster, engulfing the dragon in a fiery cloud.

Flame Convoy caromed back into the sand, throwing up a swathe of dust. That gave Snarl and Bludgeon all the cover they needed. The wolf raked his eternal enemy with his tail sword; the master of _metallikato_ was a blur that cut and sliced every exposed surface. As ordered, they fell back – so that Battle Ravage and Cruel Lock could surge forward. The jaguar and velociraptor made a frightfully effective team and wrought more damage upon their stunned foe.

Magnus transformed, raced across the sand and rammed Flame Convoy into the surf. His plan was, on the whole, very simple. The dragon was, instinctively, using his new time-shift abilities to accelerate his technorganic healing. Should he realise the true extent of his powers, they were doomed. The Autobot/Terrorcon group had to keep Flame Convoy occupied; giving them time to chip away his formidable armour and deliver an – unfortunately – fatal blow.

The idea came from Magnus’ first battle with the beast. It had ended in a draw because the Autobot lacked not power, but endurance. Flame Convoy _had_ to be weakened beyond his supernatural resilience quickly, with the help of as many Transformers as possible, if any of them were to survive. It could not come to a draw again.

“Truly are you deserving of the platitudes heaped upon you,” said a voice by his side.

Predacon had finally joined in. The zealot was in robot mode, hefting his tail whip in his right hand. Taking careful aim, he punctured the ocean with sizzling indigo beams, throwing up steam and causing blood to seep into the salt water.

“A perfect day for me,” he grinned tightly. “Yes. It will see the end of Flame Convoy’s life and, in the process, grant me unfettered insight into Autobot tactical know-how.”

Magnus glared. “We’re allies today, Predacon.”

“But of course. And, tomorrow, you return to your status as a pawn in my master plan. Once that obligation is fulfilled, there is naught left for you to do but serve as my prey.”

The sea _exploded._ Boiling water tipped over them all, bringing with it unexpected ocean life. Sharkticon, his armour shredded, fell from the sky and landed heavily on Bludgeon, crushing the warrior’s legs. Chromia slammed into a palm tree; the impact setting off the other three chambers of her blaster. Golden bolts tore into the sky – Wind Shear and his colleagues could not avoid them and dropped like insects.

Sky Shadow landed on the beach and, before Magnus could protest, charged into the surf. A snarling Cruel Lock and an enraged Battle Ravage followed. The waters stilled; the scientist probed them with his particle blasters while the dinosaur and big cat slashed at the muck with their claws.

Snarl padded over to Magnus. “Is it over?” he asked.

“I highly doubt it,” Predacon sneered.

With a yelp, Sky Shadow disappeared. Battle Ravage and Cruel Lock, too, were pulled beneath the waves; leaving nothing but air bubbles to mark their exit. Tense moments passed as the waves – still frustratingly calm – once again lapped the beach. A larger swell broke, leaving behind the crushed and bleeding chassis of all three Terrorcons.

“By the Matrix,” Magnus whispered.

A foamy breaker heralded Flame Convoy’s return. Magnus’ plan had worked in part – the dragon’s skin was mottled, his colouring trapped between extremes of heat and cold. His left serpent head lolled, then dropped unconscious to his shoulder. Its mate, on his right shoulder, was already silent. It was the first outward sign of Flame Convoy’s exhaustion. Fighting Autobots, Nemesis Prime and Terrorcons had weakened him.

The plan had worked in part, but not enough. Flame Convoy still gripping his flail… was still striding toward them… still had genocide etched in his eyes.

“Now what, master tactician?” Predacon sneered.

\-----

Downshift screamed as the half-molten hand snagged his shoulder. Decaying fingers tightened on his chassis and exerted terrible pressure on his nerve relays.

“For your sins,” Nemesis Prime rumbled, “I will take your Spark!”

A blazing red ball of life energy was emerging, slowly, from the obsidian hide of the monster. The contents of the Dead Matrix – the stolen Sparks of a thousand Cybertronians – was caught in a magnetic tug-of-war between the ancient artefact and Downshift’s own Spark catcher. And somewhere, within that coruscating life force, was the soul of his lost friend Tow-line. A mech Downshift would not fail again.

His left shoulder wrenched. Nemesis Prime was trying to pull him aside – locked onto the mega-Spark as he was, Downshift was more likely to lose his arm. He no longer cared. Fate had presented him with one more chance to atone for his foolishness and he _would not_ squander it. There was too much to make up for and he could redress all of it, right now, by re-filling the Autobot ranks with the Sparks of the deceased.

Nemesis Prime glanced at the Spark catcher. “Free will,” he muttered disgustedly, “used to repeat the mistakes of the past. Truly, there is no evolution in our race. Would you be a sin-eater, puny one? Hold yourself, do you, in such esteem as to carry the Sparks of the dead, even for a short time? Have you the courage, the discipline, the willpower?”

Anger flared within Downshift. “You didn’t,” he raged. “You buckled under the pressure and sided with the enemy! You’re no great and powerful bogeyman, Nemesis Prime… you’re a scared little weakling. A beast that’s too dumb to realise it’s dead!”

The ruined mammoth growled, gouging its fingers deeper into Downshift’s shoulder.

“Pull all you like, you blasted ghoul,” Downshift yelled. “It’s not going to do you any good! I’m going to empty the Dead Matrix, and then I’m going to pull out your virulent Spark and _atomise_ it! And believe me – I’ll find a way to do it!”

“There is more than one way to own a Spark,” the beast rasped.

Nemesis Prime’s body was, suddenly, _healing_. Metal shifted and flattened out; flesh bubbled, melted and reformed. Before his very optics, the monster’s silver chest plate was recast, the red jewel in its centre flaring brilliantly. But that was impossible. He didn’t have the same regenerative abilities as the Terrorcons!

Downshift’s sump sank. Rage. Anger. Disgust. He was, with his own contempt, _fuelling_ his foe’s rebirth. Just as the Cybertronian civil war powered Unicron; just as the Star Sabre had torn a black hole above Fortress Maximus. Hatred was not an unending, vicious cycle… it was a spinning dynamo that powered demons.

He realised his Spark catcher was actually a life-stealing claw. It was not a medicinal tool, it was a way of controlling life and death. Just like the Dead Matrix. _By the primordial program. I’ve become… no, turned myself into… Nemesis Prime._

 _There is more than one way to own a Spark._ Nemesis Prime may not have stolen Downshift’s soul but he had well and truly controlled it, from afar, the whole time.

The advice of the imaginary Red Alert echoed in his processor. _You can’t defeat demons. You can only banish them, for a time._ The jewel on the beast’s chest activated his teleportation device. One swift punch to it would send the devil back to whatever hell spawned him. That would have to be enough.

He locked optics with Nemesis Prime. The beast’s amusement withered. Downshift nodded emphatically, silently, and raised his right hand. His fingers curled into a fist…

… and the mega-Spark bubbled. Its fiery surface rippled, changing into a crude approximation of a face. A serious, learned face beneath thick optic ridges, surrounded on both sides by protective armour. Optics that were inquisitive, a mouth that was equal parts snide and wise. Tow-line’s face.

“Help,” the spectral image gasped, its voice a mess of static. “Downshift, help me…”

The engineer’s own Spark exploded with pain. “Oh no,” he moaned.

“Agony,” Tow-line groaned. “Torment… horrible… need to be free…”

Downshift’s whole body shuddered. The mega-Spark was mere _inches_ from the capture point, seconds away from being liberated. Nemesis Prime’s body, though, was reforming far too quickly – injured, yes, but useable and deadly. Surely he could weather that storm – maybe use the fire fog again – for Tow-line’s sake. It’d be worth it…

Again, he looked at Nemesis Prime’s face. The creature was no longer concerned. His amusement had returned. Amusement, coupled with a slight optic twitch of concentration. Tow-line wasn’t speaking to Downshift from within the Dead Matrix… Nemesis Prime was _manipulating_ the life energies to play a sick joke!

Downshift took once last, long look at “Tow-line”, thinking of the journalist’s courage, wisdom and crass sensibility. The pain in his own Spark eased. As he’d told himself, just moments earlier… he would not fail Tow-line again. Especially like this.

“You don’t own me anymore,” he growled.

Nemesis Prime, satisfyingly, gasped in shock. Downshift drew his fist back and slammed it into the teleportation jewel. The Spark-catcher lost its magnetic lock; the engineer fell to the left with a squeal of depressurised servo-joints. Fingers, once so tight against his frame, turned gossamer and faded away; a haunting howl of frustrated desires battered his audio sensors. The last he saw of his personal demon was a look of scalding fury as he evaporated in the dawn light.

The Spark catcher folded back into the engineer’s chest. Downshift collapsed onto his hands and knees, and cried.

\-----

“Come along, fools,” Flame Convoy hissed. “We all must die sometime.”

“Not this day, dragon,” Snarl howled. He dashed across the gap and slammed his wolf-head first into the beast’s jaw. Predacon followed his former rival into the fray, swinging his tail whip across the dragon’s muscular legs. It coiled around the limbs and pulled tight; Predacon hauled back on it and tripped his enemy up. Flame Convoy twisted as he fell, only to suffer a salvo of mini-missiles from the launchers in Magnus’ forearms.

Snarl transformed and pounced. Teeth and claws gouged Flame Convoy’s fleshy armour, tearing chunks from the reinforced chassis. Predacon, too, took on his beast mode and sunk serrated teeth into his former master, ripping up strips of hide and reams of wiring. Keeping close watch, Magnus plugged each new hole with bullets and bombs, and electrified sections of the dragon where he could do so without hurting his allies.

“How simple this is,” Snarl laughed, swallowing a mouthful of torn flesh.

“How _soft_ he has become,” Predacon crowed.

“Though he is right about one thing,” Snarl said darkly, scooping another paw-full of bloody entrails from their enemy. “We are foolish. How long did we chafe beneath his yoke of servitude when, together, we could have _ruled_ Animatros?”

“Ah, what might have been,” Predacon replied dreamily. He was munching on an extended finger. “Opportunities still exist, Fang Wolf. Might I propose…”

He never got to finish his offer. The finger in his mouth was joined by three more; a thumb snaked over his snout to form an iron grip. Gasping, the Terrorcon was lifted and slapped down, again and again, onto Snarl. So fast was the movement, so badly did the beasts obscure his aim, that Magnus was helpless to do anything save watch.

Predacon’s entire snout, upper head and vertebrae snapped off and he sloughed, agonised, to one side. Dazed as he was, Snarl would have easily been dispatched. But Flame Convoy was far too cruel for such a simple death. An ugly sneer on his features, the dragon stood back up and dragged the wolf along with him. His left hand – coloured in icy blue – flattened into a chopping strike, its claws out and ready to puncture his victim’s skull and the delicate neuro-processor within.

Lobotomy… Flame Convoy’s favourite punishment for traitors.

Magnus took both the risk and the shot. The hand evaporated in a fine red mist. Flame Convoy screamed. Snarl dropped to the sand and rolled, coming to rest against Predacon. The impact brought the cultist back on-line; he executed an agonizing transformation and re-took his robot mode, gulping air greedily.

“Get him out of here,” Magnus yelled, driving his shoulder into Flame Convoy to keep the beast off-balance. “Get them _all_ out of here, Predacon! I meant it when I said that no one dies today!”

Predacon blinked uncomprehendingly. Around him, the Terrorcons were beginning to stir. Though badly damaged, many were dragging themselves toward the Global Space Bridge portal. Others, clearly in stasis lock… or worse… were being pulled along by their colleagues. Devout to each other, if nothing else. It made Magnus momentarily proud; he guessed it would nauseate the zealot no end.

“You… I…” the Transmetal stammered. He stopped, bent down and threw Snarl over his shoulder. “Fight well,” he said at last. “May your _huntnomore_ be glorious.”

Beckoning to his warriors, Predacon led them all out of the battle zone. Thankfully, the Terrorcon sealed the GSB behind him. Now Magnus and Flame Convoy were trapped, alone, on the smouldering remains of the island.

The dragon shook his head clear and looked around. “Nobility?” he asked. “How civilised. Last time we fought, I lacked time to observe your failings. Now I know your death is deserving not of celebration, but of the scorn heaped upon the _weak._ ”

“You get one more chance,” Magnus said dangerously. “Walk away. Right now. Get off this planet and go back through your ‘tunnel of stars’. Don’t force me to kill you.”

“Bravado is useless, Red Mask,” Flame Convoy coughed wetly. The damage he had suffered was taking its toll. “Let us finish this. Far be it from me to divert a fool from his fate.”

\-----

Every inch of his body aching, Downshift hobbled toward his lab. Right now he wanted three things: a very large dose of Energon, a very long draft of oil, and at least five minutes to reload before setting off after Ultra Magnus and Snarl.

He was tired externally and internally. Pummelled from both sides. Truthfully, he wanted to lie down and switch off for an hour or two, but there was no time. The RIDs had managed to defeat Nemesis Prime, so perhaps they – along with Nightbeat’s group – could take Flame Convoy down, too.

The door of his lab slid to one side, revealing a large crowd. Everyone was in the lab; all optics turned to Downshift as he entered. They did not look happy.

“I went ta put da Star Sabre back on ice,” Armourhide scowled, cutting the engineer off before he could speak. “And I found _dis._ ” He held up a small silver cylinder, and the bottom fell out of Downshift’s world.

Armourhide thumbed the device on. A hologram of Sky Shadow appeared above their heads. “Downshift,” the recording intoned. “If you are listening to this, you have accepted my hand in friendship. I hope the data contained within this device will convince you, further, of the benefits of walking alongside me, and in pooling our resources for mutual gain.”

The image disappeared; Armourhide threw the cylinder down in disgust. “Yer nothin’ but a slagging traitor,” he spat. “A lunatic who almost killed us all. Ya creep!”

“No, no, it’s not like that,” Downshift protested. “I just…”

“Save it,” Scattorshot said. The acting RID commander stepped around Downshift and, with one smooth movement, cuffed his arms behind his back. “Yer under arrest fer high treason an’ consortin’ with the enemy. Be best, I reckon, if ya switch yer synthesiser off until we c’n arrange a trial.”

\-----

Flame Convoy had re-opened his tusk wound with a single punch. He’d torn off both his wings and used them, as weapons, to batter Ultra Magnus. He’d deflected his vehicle mode charge with both hands, flipping the Autobot onto his roof. Magnus was tiring… oh so tired… and barely able to stand.

Magnus had torn both serpents from his foe’s shoulders. He gripped them, now, in his dented and wrecked hands. He’d made great use of them as weapons, slapping and slamming them against the increasingly-mottled dragon. Flame Convoy was weakening… far, far past any damage he’d ever suffered… and walking on a broken leg.

The Autobot lashed out, feinting with the severed heads. Flame Convoy avoided them both, but could not dodge the follow-up: the spinning tyres on each of Magnus’ forearms. Last time they’d dealt serious damage to the distracting, spitting serpents. This time they brought their full force to bear on Flame Convoy’s true face. One of his eyeballs ruptured under the onslaught; the other bruised up and swelled over.

Partially blinded, the dragon missed Magnus dropping the heads and reaching down, toward his foe’s midsection. Bracing one foot on the beast’s pelvis, Magnus took hold of the ornate dragon head and heaved backward. His enhanced strength did the rest – the head tore from Flame Convoy’s body in an explosion of blood and a hailstorm of fragmenting metal. Much of his lower torso plating came with it, revealing hip bones shot through with tungsten, spilling more organic entrails onto the beach.

Momentum carried Magnus back, out of range of a flail strike. He checked his internal Energon levels – he was running on fumes. Just like before, Magnus was fast approaching the limits of his endurance. He hoped and prayed Flame Convoy was more damaged, this time, than he had been at the same point in their last confrontation… because all he had left was one special attack.

He summoned the Blue Planet Key from subspace. It activated and split the barrel of his rifle. It swung out at right angles while the sight and the missile launcher turned 90-degrees. As the single barrel became two, slots opened in Magnus’ shoulders for Powerlinking. The gun locked into place with a loud _click;_ the mini-gun’s chambers began to spin. He wrapped his hands around the crimson trigger guards. 

At the touch of his fingers, pure death was loosed into the air. Blue bolts of energy arced across the gap, driving into Flame Convoy’s ruptured torso. Magnus ensured the storm of bullets and flechette rounds were zeroed in on the exposed internal systems, so as to maximize their impact. As bones shattered and organs pulped, he flipped the trigger guards horizontally. Twin missiles flew from their chambers and detonated with incredible force right inside the dragon’s black, evil chest cavity.

Magnus tottered on his feet, stumbled, and fell over. He landed alongside a felled palm tree. None of his systems wanted to work; self-repairs were trying to kick in but lacked the energy to properly do so. Still-keen optics scanned the island for any sign of life… horribly, they _found some._

He could _see_ right through the centre of Flame Convoy. The beast’s internals were gone; only his spine held him together. One arm was gone, missing from the shoulder down. His left leg was broken, the other flecked with shrapnel. Worst of all, the deathly expression on the dragon’s face had not changed – though one eye was now missing, along with most of the steel plating – and the devastating flail was still gripped, tightly, in the half-ruined right hand.

The dragon’s spine, however, was not just steel and bone. Set into its centre was a large, dark sphere. It looked as if it had been wrapped in silver bands and carved with inscrutable symbols; blue light flared from open “window” panels in between the argent swirls. Unbelievably, Magnus could also see waves of cobalt energy _pulsing_ from the sphere. They ran down and up the spine, at regular intervals, seemingly carried away on nerve endings. How was he perceiving this?

Flame Convoy staggered closer.

Information flooded Magnus’ processor. One of the many benefits of his link to the Blue Planet Key was instant access to the annals of the Underbase – the repository of all knowledge on Cybertron. He used that link, now, to divine what was going on.

The Underbase identified the pulses as Spark energy, animating Flame Convoy’s ruptured frame. And, instead of merely looking at things, Magnus was peering through Matrix-enhanced eyes… like one of the Templars of legend. That was, no doubt, due to his Primus-induced reformatting.

The beast was just a few hundred feet away.

None of it made sense. Sparks weren’t held in a “chamber” within a Transformer’s body. Their energy suffused the entire frame, giving it colour and life, turning inert steel into living metal. This… _driver_ … was more like the Creation Matrix.

All at once, realisation dawned. Flame Convoy was one of the 13, created directly by Primus. The dragon had, in turn, breathed life into the rest of the Transformer race, changing their atomic structure with his flail. But the 13 must have contained their life forces in “chambers”, repositories of Primus’ life force, despite hitting upon a better means of animating their soldiers. A _much_ better means – Frenzy and Rumble had, after all, scooped the life out of Metroplex on Gigalonia.

The dragon _did_ have a weakness… its heart.

How could Magnus capitalise? His tortured body did not want to co-operate; his energy reserves were so drained he could not stand, much less fight. There were no allies around to assist him, his weapon was empty, and…

… in the sand, next to the palm tree, was a deutronium injector.

He was on the spot Chromia had landed during the fight. She must have held onto the deut-shot – the traditional Decepticon stimulant – after Snarl had refused it, then dropped it upon impact. The drill bit “needle” was broken, but the mixture of deutronium and Energon was still inside the handle – and still potent. There was simply no way of getting it past one’s armour… unless one had an open wound.

Flame Convoy was so close to Magnus that a heat haze was rising. “This… is the end,” he gasped. “ _Huntnomore_ beckons…”

Magnus looked at the injector… thought of the tusk wound, underneath his arm… and acted. With his last erg of strength, he scooped up the device and plunged it into the ragged gash in his armour. Pain raced through his systems, followed by a surge of Energon and the super-charging power of deutronium.

“No one dies today,” he whispered, “except those who must.”

He threw his right fist with explosive force. The punch connected with the Spark chamber and broke it free from Flame Convoy’s spine. His remaining eye widened, the iris whitening and fading from view. A drop of liquid sulphur drooled from his lips, splashed onto Magnus’ face plate and ran down, burning a scar across his right optic and along his silver cheek.

The sphere went dark upon impact, its life-shine extinguished. It rocketed out of the creature’s back and soared into the air, travelling into the distance and splashing down into the ocean, lost. Flame Convoy – now soulless, devoid of intelligence and personality – coughed and choked. The involuntary death rattles were his final sounds.

A chassis that had survived a thousand battles, had weathered assassination and succession attempts, had held an entire planet to ransom for uncounted centuries, toppled forward. It crashed atop Magnus’ weakened body and fell into shuddering, final silence… its sole weakness had lain beneath the flesh its owner had so craved, and had sacrificed entire races to obtain.

Buried beneath the remains of his deadliest enemy, lacking the strength to free himself, Magnus sighed with relief. The long nightmare was over. Properly disposed of, Flame Convoy’s carcass would not torment the space-time continuum anymore. His dead Spark chamber was lost at sea. His tyranny, and heinous plans to rule Earth, were undone forever. And Magnus… Magnus had finally exorcised his personal demon, proving it was only ever confidence, not strength or smarts, he had lacked.

A slow parody of applause echoed over the beach. Hands – steel hands – were hailing Magnus with all the sarcasm they could muster. Pinned as he was, he turned and craned his head, trying to see who was around. Predacon, he guessed.

He was wrong.

“Well done, Ultra Magnus, well done,” screeched a high-pitched, almost effeminate voice. “Not that I’ve never felt you lacked conviction as a warrior, but who knew you had the strength and fortitude to be so… well, so deliciously _callous!_ ”

Magnus groaned as Starscream came into view. The Decepticon aerial warrior leaned over him, blocking out the ocean sun, and sneered characteristically. In seconds, other unwelcome faces… Soundwave, Rumble, Demolishor… joined that of their leader.

“I may yet have to revise my opinion of you upwards,” Starscream continued, cackling oh-so slightly. “Provided I let you _live_ long enough, of course.”


End file.
